Chase tossed a look at me, and I moved up so I could follow him into the house. We walked into the foyer and the cool of the air conditioning washed over us while I closed the door behind me. I could see where the back of the house had the addition, and the stairs were straight up on the left. There was a bench, and a small table with flowers, and whitewashed wainscoting ran along the walls.
“Tony? Who is it?”
A woman just a little shorter than Chase and his dad appeared in the door to the kitchen. She was wearing a sunny yellow apron, skinny jeans and striped top. Her hair, a more muted gray and black, was up in a messy bun.
She gasped and put a hand to her mouth, staring at Chase. “Is that really you?”
“Hi, Mom.”
She launched herself at him, and the tears just burst out of her. “Oh, my God, Chase. Chase, I’m so sorry! I’m so sorry. I didn’t know what to do or how to talk to you or—”
“Don’t smother the damn kid, Beth,” Tony grumbled. “Get him back and kill him with kindness. Damn.”
The small chuckle escaped me, and I covered my mouth with the back of my hand. Chase extracted himself from his mother and took my hand. “Mom, Dad, this is my boyfriend, Marcus. Marcus, these are my parents, Tony and Beth Garcia.”
I reached out and shook each of their hands. “Nice to meet you.”
Tony shook his head. “Doesn’t just come back, has to bring a boyfriend. Lord. Come on, come into the kitchen. I got some beers and we can chat.”
Beth looked terrified for just a moment. “Tony, I’m not—”
“Beth, the boy doesn’t care if your stove has stains. He doesn’t. Just come in and sit with him. Damn.”
This was going to be interesting.
CHASE
THE KITCHEN WASSTILL YELLOW.
I’d bet the living room was still blue, the dining room still gray, and their bedroom still beige. My room would still have the boats and sails from when I was ten, and Rider’s room was probably still full of race cars.
Things didn’t change on the Garcia farm.
Well, maybe that wasn’t so true anymore.
My grandmother living in the old cottage was one of the changes. I hoped there were going to be more.
My father took a drink of the beer. I was going to make a comment about the 11:30 in the morning beer, but I didn’t think it would be the best move.
“So, uh…” He spun the can of cheap brew in his hands, and stared at it. It took him a minute to look up again. “I owe you an apology. Whether or not I agreed with your lifestyle, I was wrong to throw you out and I was wrong to not listen to you. I’m sorry for that.”
I just about fell off my chair. It wasn’t the most elegant apology, and certainly not the purest, but it was an apology.
“Thank you, Dad,” I managed.
“ThisHow to Dietherapy they have me in—”
“It’s notHow to Die,” my mother snapped.
“Oh, jeeze, this again…” He shook his head. “Fine. The Death With Dignity therapy I’m in has me talking about what I screwed up in life…”
My mother let out a giant sigh. “It’s a Death With Dignity therapy designed to help end-of-life patients deal with their own grief, and the regrets they might have. It also encourages different thinking and both trying to rectify regrets and living with them.”
Dad was staring at the ceiling until Mom was done. “So. That thing. And it did get me thinking—”
“After he finished cursing me out and being an ass about all of this,” my mother added.
“—that I don’t have a whole lot of time left. Maybe these head shrinkers weren’t completely wrong about things.”
