Swallowing my disappointment, I follow her lead, sitting at the circular tile and wood kitchen table that has been here since they moved in. One thing about my parents is that they’ve never once redecorated or done renovations on this house. This house is encapsulated in time, exactly the way it was when I was a kid. I knocked my head on this exact table when I was seven, breaking skin and needing stitches on my forehead. There’s still a scar above my left eyebrow.
Mom makes small talk as we eat, asking about work, remarking on the weather. My anxiety rises with every question and comment. I’ve never made small talk with Jodi or Aunt Missy. Everything has always come so easy with them. As soon as I have the thought, I push it away, guilt settling low in my stomach. I try very hard not to compare my relationships with my parents to those of the other adults in my life. It’s not fair to anyone.
“I heard you’re dating Holden’s sister,” Mom says, surprising me out of my thoughts.
I swallow the bite of my sandwich before responding. “Uh, yeah, I am.” I could tell her the truth—she’s mymom—but I don’t want to explain it all to her.
She doesn’t ask why I didn’t tell her. She doesn’t expect me to. We don’t have that kind of relationship. I always expected I’d introduce a woman to my parents when we were engaged or close to it.
“Well, we have to have her for dinner.”
This shocks me. “What? Why?”
“I want to meet her.” Mom says this as if it’s obvious.
“You’ve met her. Plenty of times.”
“Not as your girlfriend.”
Maybe Ishouldhave explained the fake dating situation, because I absolutely do not want to subject Finley to a dinner with my parents.
“You go over there every single weekend, but you’ve never even brought one of your girlfriends home,” Mom says, using a tone I don’t recognize. An edge that sounds almost like hurt, and it rocks me to my core. I’ve never considered that it might hurt her that I spend so much time with the Blankenships, that they basically adopted me and I felt like I fit for the first time.
I sigh, palm the back of my neck, feeling that telltale guilt pricking at me again. I always feel guilty here. “Okay, yeah. I’ll see what I can do.”
She smiles. I know I should feel relieved that I’ve pleased her, but I don’t. For the first time, I wonder if there’s anything Iwouldn’tdo to try to make my parents happy with me. If bringing Finley into this place is where I draw the line.
“Jen,” Dad calls from the den, his voice somehow louder than the TV. “I forgot a drink. Would you bring me one?”
Mom’s smile turns pinched, but she excuses herself and heads for the fridge, leaving me alone with my thoughts. Like I’ve been so many other times in this house.
The best part ofsummer in Fontana Ridge is, without a doubt, the county fair. Everyone, and I mean everyone, in town attends at least one day. There are funnel cakes and pie-baking competitions. Carnival rides and the best lemonade you’ll ever have in your life. Kids participating in 4-H and a temporary farmers’ market.
For as long as I’ve been alive, my family has attended the fair on Thursdays. Sometimes Holden and I would come throughout the week with friends, but Thursdays were the days Mom took off from work, loaded us into her tiny car, and headed across town to the fairgrounds. We’d spend the day riding poorly constructed rides run by high teenagers and ex-cons. We’d eat our weight in fried food and complain about the heat and humidity. And at night, we’d attend the rodeo. Mom and I would always root for whichever bull rider was the hottest, and Holden would groan under his breath and usually bring a book to read between events. He hated the crowds and the noise, but Mom and I loved it.
Today is Thursday, and we’re headed to the fair. But this time, I’m not in a car with my mom or with Holden and his little family. Grey picks me up from Unlikely Places, leaving his truck idling out front.
“Hello, sweetheart,” he says as he walks through the front door.
He’s wearing a hat today. It’s backward, pushing his hair out beneath the rim. His skin is darker, cheeks red and freckled like he’s spent time out in the sun. His jeans are slung low on his hips, and the heather green tee he’s wearing is so worn it’s basically transparent. I’m sure it would disintegrate in the rain.
I roll my eyes at him. “We’re alone in here. You don’t need to call me that.”
He grins at me, dimple popping in his left cheek. “I like it. It suits you. You’re sweet to everyone,” he says, and then his grin widens, turning cheeky. “Except me, of course.”
“Of course.”
After closing out the register, I come around the counter, and Grey’s eyes widen as he takes in my outfit.
“You can’t be serious.”
“It’s rodeo day,” I say, defiant.
I’m wearing tiny denim shorts and a shirt that saysGiddy Upon the front in rope letters. But that’s not what he’s looking at. It’s the cherry red boots on my feet.
“You always wear those, and you always complain.”
I kick out one foot, prop a hand on my hip. “I don’t always wear these. They’re new.”
