Mom’s focus drifts off screen. “I guess ithasbeen that long. My, how time flies,” she says distractedly. She blinks and looks back at the camera again, frowning. “You said you made the bread for Mrs. Vivian and her grandson. Was he visiting her or…” She stops, seeming to be waiting for me to finish her sentence. I do.
“He’s living in the apartment above the garage,” I supply.
Her softOhand the way she draws her bottom lip between her teeth unsettle me. “Mom, what?”
Her frown deepens. “What was his name again? Started with an ‘A.’ Alex? Andre?”
“It’s Andrew,” I say, and then because I can’t help it, “Drew.”
Her focus sharpens again, and I swear, it’s like we’re in the same room. It reminds me of being sixteen, when she used to grill me on Friday nights before I was allowed to leave the house.Are you going to Tracy’s? Will her parents be home? Will boys be there? Do you know you can call me anytime, and I’ll come get you — no questions asked?
“Evie, you know I adore Mrs. Vivian, but as I recall, those boys were a heap of trouble before all of that happened,” Mom says, a no-nonsense look on her face. “I can’t say I’m pleased to hear the Moroux boy is living there.”
I think of the man I met this afternoon. The one who couldn’t seem to get away from me fast enough. The one who let his guard down for about five seconds to enjoy a chocolaty slice of zucchini bread. The one who wore shame like a weight around his neck. He didn’t look like trouble.
He looked like a wounded animal. Or a lost boy. Skittish. Untrusting. Hungry.
“I met him today.” My voice is casual, but I’m aware that I want it to sound casual. “I don’t think you have anything to worry about.”
“Evangeline.” Mom eyeballs me over the rim of her glasses, one brow arched. “Do I need to remind you about the raccoons?”
I give my mom the stink eye. “Mom, please. I’m not nine.”
She’s still pinning me with her stare. “You’re not nine, but some aspects of your personality have not changed. Those raccoon kits would have torn you to shreds if your father hadn’t stopped y—”
“Mom,”I drone, growing embarrassed. And irritated. Mom — and Dad, and Tori, for that matter — are always bringing up this story.
And despite my protests, she doesn’t stop. “We let you and your sister explore the woods for ten minutes while we got the tent set up and—”
“And, yes, I know,” I edge in, my tone flinty. I tilt my head from left to right as I regale her with the details. “We found the dead mama raccoon. Then we heard the kits crying in the hollow of a water oak. And I wanted to rescue them. I remember, Mom.”
My mother has been nodding with each remembered fact. “Yes, and you would have crawled into that hollow to fetch them, even though they were hissing and spitting at you like a pair of bandit-masked demons.”
“I was going to throw a camping blanket over them like a net,” I say in my defense. “They wouldn’t have hurt me—”
Mom’s sudden laughter interrupts me. “Do you hear yourself?”
Humorless, I cock a brow at my mother and wait for her laughter to subside. “I honestly don’t know why we’re even talking about raccoons, Mom,” I level.
“Oh, no?” She’s still smiling, but there’s an edge to her expression I can’t at first decipher. And then I do. Exasperation. That’s what it is. She sighs. “Well, I’ll spell it out for you, kid. You are too tender-hearted for your own good, and one day, it’s going to put you on the path of someone who’s going to tear you up a whole lot worse than those baby raccoons would have.”
“Mom,” I grumble, speaking through clenched teeth. “Give me a little credit. I’m twenty-one, and I’m a pretty good judge of character—”
“Then promise me you’ll stay away from that Moroux boy.”
“Oh my God, Mom.” My voice pitches higher. “I made Mrs. Vivian a loaf of bread. And do you know why?” The words ring with a shrill edge. “Because Tori was so freaked out that Mrs. Vivian was letting her grandson live in her garage, I was afraid she was going to say something rude to her.”
Mom looks surprised at my outburst. She opens her mouth to speak, but I keep going.
“Do you have any idea what she’s like these days? She’s horrid toeveryone.You’re on another continent,” I snap. “But I’m living under the same roof, and I’d rather not have all of the neighbors giving us the evil eye because she’s made an ass of herself by sticking her nose where it doesn’t belong or saying something absolutelyvileto someone.”
The look of exasperation is gone. Now Mom looks concerned. “Evie—”
“So I took it upon myself to find out what the deal was with Mrs. Vivian and her grandson. So I could reassure Tori that he’s not, in fact, likely to break in during the dead of night and slit our throats.” As I say this, there’s a part of my mind — a detached, observant, and completely grounded part — that notes the sarcasm dripping from my words. And the pulse pounding in my neck. This unwavering and timeless part recognizes that I have left it’s centering guidance and am now going rogue. “And guess what, Mom? He’s not. He practically scurried out of Mrs. Vivian’s kitchen when he found me there this afternoon. The guy hadzerointerest in talking to me whatsoever.”
The grounded observer in my mind notes a root of disappointment attached to these words in particular.
And that is the thought that rises through my outrage and flashes across the forefront of my mind.
