The Maddox house sits on the edge of town, white clapboard with a wraparound porch and shutters, which my father painted hunter green years ago. The lights are already on when I pull up, the smell of roasted chicken and rosemary spilling out the open kitchen windows.
Inside, the warmth hits me immediately. My mother is at the stove, apron tied tight, gray streaks in her dark hair catching the light.
My father is setting the table, his movements slow but steady, the limp in his right leg noticeable from the years he spent in construction before retirement.
“Levi!” my mom exclaims, turning with a wooden spoon in her hand. “Look at you. Too skinny. Are you eating?”
I roll my eyes, leaning down to kiss her cheek. “Hi, Ma.”
She swats me lightly with the spoon, then fusses with my hair like I’m still sixteen.
“Busy,” I answer her unspoken question as I hand her the bag from Miss Thea. “Long shifts. That’s all.”
“Sure, son,” my dad mutters from the table, his voice dry as sandpaper.
My mother shoots him a look. “Hush now, Thomas. Let the boy breathe.”
I grin at my dad. He’s wiry, his beard gone mostly white, but his blue eyes are still sharp with humor. “Hi, Dad.”
“Wash your hands before you sit,” Ma orders, pointing at the sink.
“Yes, ma’am.”
Dinner consists of roasted chicken, potatoes with butter and parsley, and green beans tossed with garlic. The kind of meal you can’t get in a takeout box, no matter how good the diner is.
“How’s the paramedic work treating you?” Dad asks once we’re settled, his hands steady as he carves the chicken.
I shrug. “Busy. We’ve had more calls this season than usual. A couple of fires, more traffic accidents than I’d like. And you?” I nod at him, meaning retirement.
He grunts. “I miss the work. Not the early mornings. Or the bad knees.”
Mom pats his hand. “We’re doing fine. We’ve been seeing more of Tessa, though. She called us last week.”
“I miss her,” I admit. “Haven’t had a chance to visit in months.”
“She misses you too.” Mom’s voice softens. “We should all plan to go see her. I don’t like the idea of her alone in that big university.”
“She’s not alone, Mom. She seems to be making friends, or at least that’s what she told me.”
“We should still visit more,” my mother counters.
I smile, guilt twisting in my chest. She’s right. I should go.
My phone chimes just then, the vibration rattling against the table. I glance down.
It takes me half a second to register the name at the top of the screen: Wren. She’s texting the group chat.
The first text from her since everything.
Hi. I know this is last-minute, but I was wondering if you could help me with a pop-up at Norah’s flower shop, in two days.
My stomach flips.
Beau replies almost instantly:You got it, sweetheart. Just tell me what time.
Simon follows:Of course. Happy to help. Just let us know what you need.
I stare at the screen a second longer, pulse loud in my ears, before I type:I’ll be there. Looking forward to it.
