“Yeah, we wouldn’t want to miss Mom’s ham pot pie.” He says this with feigned seriousness.
“Ham pot pie,” I repeat.
Grey nods solemnly. “If you clean your plate, I’ll get you dessert after this.”
My smile stretches wider. “Deal.”
Dinner is as awkwardas I expected it to be. Dad made his plate and began to head back to the den before my mom stopped him, asking if he wanted to stay. He clearly didn’t, but by the way she phrased it, it wasn’t really a question. So he stayed and sat down at the head of the table, where I can only recall him eating a handful of times, and dug into his ham pot pie.
The three of us followed suit. That was ten minutes ago, and there’s been more scraping of flatware against plates than there has been conversation. It’s so silent I can hear my heart beating in my ears.
Beside me, Finley tries to start up the conversation once more. “So Mrs. Sutton, tell me about your work.”
“I’m the school receptionist at the elementary school in Kingstown.” Kingstown is about the size of Fontana Ridge and ten miles down the highway. Mom has worked there for as long as I can remember, even though she’s never seemed to like it much.
Finley smiles, and I’m surprised at how genuine it looks. She doesn’t seem the least bit uncomfortable with the quiet, with thestilted conversation, whereas I can feel the sweat trickling down between my shoulder blades.
“I’m sure there’s never a dull day, then. Did you ever want to be a teacher?”
Surprise flickers across Mom’s face, as though no one has ever asked her that question before. And I’m sure no one has. I’m only now realizing how little I know about my parents’ dreams, only that neither of them got to pursue them when they got pregnant with me at twenty.
Mom looks down at her plate, spearing a flavorless canned green bean with her fork. “Yes, I did. But I dropped out of college when I found out I was pregnant with Grey.”
Finley nods in understanding. “My mom also got pregnant with Holden young. I think it’s admirable that you put your dreams on hold to raise him.”
Mom swallows, and when she looks up at Finley, there’s a look on her face that’s unfamiliar to me. Something like respect. “Thank you, Finley,” she says, and I let out a sigh of relief that she got her name right.
“Of course,” Finley says, sincerity in every line of her face. “Young mothers don’t get enough credit.”
At the head of the table, Dad clears his throat, drawing our attention to him. He’s reclined in his chair, an easygoing smile on his face. He looks relaxed, laid-back, as if it’s not strange for him to be here sharing a family dinner.
“So Finley, you own that flower shop in town, right? I think I’ve heard Grey mention it before.” I’m not sure who is more surprised that he’s been listening—me, Finley, or Mom.
A smile blooms across Finley’s face, the same one that always does when she gets to talk about Unlikely Places. “I do. I’ve been running it for a few years now.”
Dad nods, looking as charming as ever. “Starting your own business is hard work. I’ve been running the garage since Grey was a boy.”
I should have known he’d bring the conversation back to himself. Finley casts a look in my direction, and only then do I realize my shoulders have stiffened. She glances back at my father, her smile unwavering.
“Tell me about it. I can only hope I keep Unlikely Places open and successful for as long as you’ve run the garage.”
It’s the exact right thing to say to get my dad talking. I tune him out as he begins detailing the ins and outs of the garage, the day-to-day operations, the ways he’s expanded over the years, the second location he opened five years ago. He likes to say he’s building an empire.
“There’s nothing more satisfying than being your own boss.”
Finley laughs. “Oh, I don’t know about that. I can be a terrible employee.”
A smile stretches across Dad’s face. “I very much doubt that.” His gaze finally moves off her, landing heavily on me. “I always wanted Grey to start his own business.”
Tension coils deep in my stomach at the familiar turn of the conversation.
“You didn’t want him to work with you?”
A hearty, derisive laugh escapes Dad’s throat. “No. I didn’t want to hand him anything he didn’t work for. Maybe that was my mistake, though, since he couldn’t be bothered anyway. He’s content to waste his life working for someone else. In a dangerous field he will eventually age out of, no less.”
I feel Finley’s stare resting on the side of my face, but I don’t look at her. There were many reasons why I didn’t spend much time at my own home growing up. Many more reasons I stayed away as an adult. But this is probably the biggest.
When I don’t look at Finley, she turns back to my father, and I can feel her shoulders squaring beside me, brushing against my own stiff ones.
