I take a deep breath, and get back to work.
Chapter Eighteen
Ryder
The smell of Mom's pot roast hits me the moment I walk through the front door, instantly transporting me back to Sunday dinners when I was twelve years old and my biggest worry was whether I'd made the cut for the youth team.
"There's my boy!" Mom calls from the kitchen, wiping her hands on her floral apron. "Perfect timing. Everything's just finished."
Dad's already at the dining room table, sleeves rolled up and a cold beer in his hand. The sight of him waiting for his family to gather around the table makes something warm settle in my chest.
"Tom, help your son with his coat," Mom calls over her shoulder as she carries a steaming casserole dish toward us.
"I've got it, Mom," I protest, but she's already bustling back to the kitchen for the next course.
Dad chuckles, standing to give me one of those brief, back-slapping hugs that somehow convey more affection than a dozenwords. "You know better than to argue with her when she's in hostess mode."
The dining room table is set perfectly as always. Fresh flowers sit in the center, flanked by serving dishes that make my mouth water just looking at them.
Pot roast with carrots and potatoes, green bean casserole that's been her signature dish since I was in grade school, fresh-baked dinner rolls that are still warm from the oven, and what looks like apple pie cooling on the kitchen counter.
"You outdid yourself, Mom," I say, settling into my usual chair as she appears with the last of the dishes.
"Oh, nonsense. This is nothing compared to what your grandmother used to make for your grandfather's business trips." She smooths her apron and takes her seat. "But I figured you should have a proper meal before you're stuck eating airplane food and whatever passes for cuisine in hotel restaurants."
I could tell her that the team actually looks after us pretty well.
But then she'd stop making this delicious spread every time I went on the road.
I tuck in and soon enough, dinner conversation flows easily, the way it always has in this house. Even with the absence of my sister who's apparently gone up-state to visit 'some guy she's met'.
As if to distract himself from this news, Dad tells us about a particularly difficult customer at the hardware store who insisted on buying paint that was completely wrong for his project, despite multiple warnings. Mom chimes in and shares gossip from her book club, including the ongoing drama about whether they should switch from romance novels to literary fiction.
"Those women are still pushing for that depressing book about war," Mom says, rolling her eyes. "I told them we read books toescape reality, not to be reminded of how terrible the world can be."
"Smart woman," Dad agrees, reaching for another dinner roll. "Life's hard enough without adding fictional misery to it."
I find myself only half-listening, my mind wandering to Mia and the chaos I left behind at the shelter earlier. The way she tried to hide her anxiety about the road trip, how she forced that bright smile when I told her the schedule.
Mom's voice snaps me back to the present. "How are things going with Mia, sweetheart?"
There it is. The question I've been expecting since I walked in the door.
"Really good," I say, and I can hear the happiness in my own voice. "Better than good, actually. It's like..." I pause, searching for the right words. "It's like we picked up right where we left off, but better. More mature."
"That girl's got a good head on her shoulders. Always did, even when you two were teenagers." Dad takes a swig of his beer. "As for you…"
He gives me a look and a raised brow.
"I know, Dad. She's incredible," I agree. "You guys should see what she's done with the fundraiser money. The shelter's being completely renovated, and she's got everything organized down to the last detail."
My parents stare at me with matching expressions.
Mom's eyes are practically glistening, and Dad's trying to hide his smile behind his beer, but failing miserably. The unspoken "that's our boy" hangs in the air between us, thick as the gravy on my half-empty plate, and just as warm.
"I just..." I run a hand through my hair, feeling suddenly vulnerable. "I don't want to screw it up again. She's giving me this second chance, and I can't shake the feeling that I don't deserve it."
"Oh, sweetheart." Mom's expression softens. "You were eighteen years old when you left. Eighteen! Of course you made mistakes. That doesn't mean you don't deserve happiness now."
