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He had a twinkle in his eyes as he studied me.
“Maybe next time, young man,” he said, “if a beautiful woman is looking at you like that, don’t be the one pulling away.”
I blew out a harsh breath, swiping a hand over my mouth as I left the rink.
Chapter 23
Harlow
I’d always associated smells with certain people and places in my life. The slightest hint of exhaust or street food would bring me back to New York. Before I moved back home, the sharp, masculine scent of sandalwood and fir trees reminded me of Ian, though now I suspected that sawdust and freshly cut wood would bring him to mind.
And the moment I smelled lemon Pledge or cinnamon coffee cake, I thought of my parents’ house. Very little about it had changed since I moved out after high school because neither my mom nor dad felt the need to make updates to a place where they were perfectly comfortable.
As Sage and I walked into their house for lunch, I took a deep inhale. Rachel must have just baked the cinnamon cake at home because the scent of it hung heavy in the air, and the pang of nostalgia was so sharp, I felt it behind my breastbone.
“In the kitchen,” my mom called.
Sage hung her coat on the wooden coat tree next to the door, and I did the same.
“Shoes off,” I whispered when she started into the family room.
Sage plopped on the floor and tugged her tennis shoes off, chucking them toward the shoe tray next to the door. When they bounced off the wall, I gave her a look.
“What? I took them off,” she said, then she scampered off to find her cousins, who were making loud whooping sounds from the basement rec room. That room smelled like old, musty carpet and my dad’s aftershave.
My dad was in his recliner, eyes closed, the gentle sounds of his snoring pulling a smile on my face. Carefully, I pulled the green and white blanket my mom crocheted up and over his stomach because he always got cold when he napped, even if he never admitted it.
In the kitchen, my mom was pulling a casserole from the oven—ham and cheese and potatoes, from the looks of it—and Rachel was setting the table.
“Todd couldn’t make it?” I asked her.
My sister paused, straightening a fork next to one of the plates. “He got an overtime shift.”
“Good,” I said. “I mean, that’s good, right?”
Rachel nodded. “Double pay, so yes, I’d say so. Tips have been down for me at the restaurant, so the extra cash helps.”
My mom rubbed her back as she passed my sister. “Don’t feel like you need to explain anything to us. We understand. Not everyone can stay home and still get paid.”
The tightness in my jaw was immediate, and I’d be shocked if my tongue wasn’t bleeding because I bit down on it so hard. “I work from home, Mom.”
My mom sighed, slicking a hand over the top of her graying bun. “Let’s not ruin lunch before it’s even started.”
I took a deep breath and tried to remember what Ian had talked about. I didn’t need them to understand what I did.
But still, I couldn’t drop it completely, because I was kinda getting sick of being the punching bag. “I know Todd and Rachel work hard, Mom. And it’s a very different kind of job than I’ve ever had. But that doesn’t mean I don’t work hard too.”
Rachel gave me a brief, inscrutable look, and I had a feeling her tongue was bleeding just like mine. The six years between us felt like twenty sometimes, and this was one of them. We’d always been just far enough away from each other that we were never in the same phase of school at the same time.
It was only in having kids that we evened out. I got pregnant earlier than I’d expected to, and Rachel and Todd waited to save their money, then struggled with infertility for a couple of years before they had their two kids.
“Can you fill the waters, Harlow?” Mom asked. She moved some warm rolls into the breadbasket and handed them to Rachel. The cinnamon cake was on a hand-knitted trivet to the right of the oven, and it looked exactly the same way it always had.
I did as she asked, the three of us moving around the kitchen and small dining nook like we’d time-warped back twenty-five years. We’d all sit in the same spots when it was time to eat. The kids would be at a card table just to the side of us, and my dad would grumble a little when my mom instructed him to turn off the TV while we ate.
For some, there might be comfort in that routine, but despite my dad’s obvious olive branch at Sage’s practice, it made me feel like my feet were stuck in quicksand.
The food was ready, the glasses filled, and my mom called for my dad. “Dinner’s ready,” she said.
