“He lives with me,” I say flatly.
“You know I’m allergic.”
Pancake meows with the enthusiasm of someone who knows exactly what kind of man my father is.
“I can put him in my bedroom,” I say, kneeling to pick my cat up.
This could also be an excuse for me to take a break for a couple of minutes. I’m exhausted after hours of driving.
My mother’s voice is too bright. “Oh, honey! We converted your bedroom into the sewing room, remember?”
Right. The sewing room. Where she does crafts she never finishes.
That means I have no place to sleep tonight.
“Oh! I forgot,” I whisper. “If it’s okay, I think I need to freshen up. Is the motel by the bookstore still open? I should get myself a room.”
I’m already backing toward the door.
“You could stay above the café,” she offers. “It hasn’t been used in a while, but the space is still there.”
I nod. My grandmother’s house. “That sounds better.”
She watches me for a long beat, then steps forward and hugs me. It’s brief and loose, more habit than warmth.
“Welcome home, sweetheart.”
I don’t say anything.
All I can think is that Grandma should be here.
They leave three days later.
Still excited about the cruise. Still talking over me. My dad tries to hide his relief. My mom leaves a list of numbers for emergencies and asks if I’ll be okay. I lie and say yes.
I haven’t heard from Rob. Not a call. Not a text. Nothing. I try not to care, throwing myself into the kitchen instead.
It’s worse than I thought.
The grease trap is clogged. The mixer is busted. There are mouse droppings in the corner of the pantry, and the fridge hums like it’s choking on its last breath.
But I’m here.
So, I scrub.
I clear the counters, wash everything twice, and chase Pancake off the prep tables.
“Get down,” I snap when he leaps onto the metal counter. “That’s not for you.”
He ignores me, grooming his paw with elegant disdain.
I attempt to make a batch of Grandma’s muffins—apple-cinnamon, the way she used to make them. The recipe’s in her old tin box, tucked behind flour-stained index cards.
The first attempt is a disaster.
The batter’s too thick. I forgot to preheat the oven. Pancake yowls and knocks a canister of sugar off the shelf in protest.
“Great,” I mutter, sweeping it up. “You’re a menace.”
