“I’ll pass.”
“We’ll leave from there, so until next time, Remington,” my father says.
“Travel safely,” Uncle Remington calls. And that’s that. No acknowledgement I’m here. My shoulders ease slightly, knowing he isn’t coming. If the outcome of Mrs. Benson yelling at Uncle Remington is that he tries to avoid me even more, I’ll take it.
The car ride is awkwardly silent, and it’s with a forced smile that Mom heads to the diner entrance. It’s bustling inside, several people eating at the counter, multiple booths filled. The familiar oldies music plays low, mixing with the chatter of everyone eating to create a warm background of noise.
“Oh, isn’t this . . . charming,” my father says.
“Jack, your mother cooks here?”
“Since she was a teenager,” Jack says. “Her uncle owned it. The new owner gave her a raise when he took over after her uncle died, to make sure she stayed. She’s that good.” He leads us over to the manager, Steve, who gives Jack a warm, curious look. “I know, it’s not Saturday,” Jack says with a half-smile. “I’ll be back tomorrow, too. Think you can spare Mom for a minute?”
Steve looks at me and then at my parents. “Sure thing, Jack. I’ll get her. You want a booth?”
“Thanks, Steve.”
Jack and I slide into one side of the booth, leaving my parents to go to the other. Mrs. Benson appears a minute later, beaming at the sight of me and Jack. That expression changes when she sees my parents, a steel cast coming over her eyes.
“Morning, Mom,” Jack says, at the same time I say, “Morning, Mrs. Benson.”
“Hi, boys. Everything all right?”
Mom clears her throat. “Lilah, Randolph and I wanted to apologize for our behavior yesterday.”
Mrs. Benson’s eyebrow ticks up.
“We were caught off guard,” my father says. “We have a better sense of things now.”
I look at Jack, who isn’t even hiding his skepticism. This is the best they can do as an apology? Mrs. Benson seems to be in agreement with us, unmoved by their pathetic attempt at making amends. “Holidays can be stressful,” she finally says. “I hope you do have a better sense of things. The things that really matter.”
Her gaze lands on me. Warmth blazes in my core.
I feel my parents’ eyes on me as well, and after several quiet seconds, Mom speaks. “I’m fairly certain we do.”
Mrs. Benson looks at her, and the severity in her expression lessens. “Then apology accepted. Now, can I interest you in some breakfast?”
Mom looks at her watch. “I’m not sure we have time for a full meal. Elliot, would you mind if your father and I left in the next few minutes? Traffic will be insane today.”
In my periphery, I see Mrs. Benson open her mouth as if to say something. “No, I don’t mind,” I tell Mom. It’s the truth, this time. My parents say they want to change. Part of me believes them. I know if they do manage it, it’ll take time. It’ll start as we discussed last night, with more frequent phone calls. Dad suggested once a week. They said they’ll try to be home for Christmas.
Will it happen? I have no idea. Despite the pinch of grief that admission sets in my chest . . . I like to think they’ll keep this promise.
“Jack, Eli, do you want your Saturday usual, or will that wait until tomorrow?” Mrs. Benson asks, an odd mixture of enthusiasm and edge to her voice.
“Pumpkin pancakes?” Jack suggests.
“And chocolate chip. We’ll split them,” I tell her.
Jack nods. “Heck yeah.”
Mrs. Benson smiles and hurries back to the kitchen. I stand as my parents do, leading them out to the car.
My father touches a hand to my upper arm. “We’ll be in touch soon, Elliot.”
Mom gives me a hug, and that fragile part of my heart that I don’t think I’ll ever be able to change—the part that yearns for the two of them in a foolish, childish way—shudders. This hug is better. Still not like Mrs. Benson’s hugs . . . but better than Mom’s have been before.
Mom kisses the top of my head. “Love you, my darling boy.”
