“So, you think it’s time to finally leave the nest?” she says, her expression unreadable. “Spread your wings and fly off into the sunset?”
“You kicked me out, remember?” I say quietly.
Aunt Andrea doesn’t comment. There’s a two-for-one mimosa special, and she orders for both of us. Avocado toast for her and a waffle with a side of bacon for me.
“Still your go-to, right?” she asks, once the server walks away.
I don’t mention I’ve always preferred sausage and pancakes or pie, obviously, if it’s on the menu, but I’m surprised at the effort and appreciate her trying. “Thanks,” I say. “That sounds great.”
We sit largely in silence, though she talks about the store a little, until our food and drinks arrive.
“So, who’s the guy?” she asks. Her tone is as light and as peppy as a friend mining for the latest gossip after a long time apart. There’s a spark in her eyes as she leans in closer. She genuinelyseems interested. It’s Aunt Andrea, I tell myself, which means this could all be a trap. Anxiety builds and pops like the bubbles at the bottom of the mimosa I don’t touch.
“Considering you’ve been so closed-off all these years, you’re overdue for some messy entanglements,” she says between bites of toast that she’s eating with a fork and a knife.
“We’re really—” I begin, but she cuts me off quicker than I can stitch a single thought together. Not that I’d planned to tell her much, regardless.
“No, believe me, I understand.” She takes a long sip of her drink. “I remember the gleam your mother had in her eyes back when she’d sing in front of a room of pretty strangers. I was around for long enough to see plenty of heartbreak in those days.”
“I’m sure you had some misadventures of your own,” I say, not liking where this conversation is headed.
“I was more focused on your Uncle Orson to notice anyone else, even when she was giving him those puppy eyes from across the stage,” she says. “Have I told you how much you look like her?”
“Once or twice,” I say, fiddling with the fringe on my vest.
“She was always beautiful. No one can deny that.” Her eyes seem to scan across every part of my face.
“I wish I had more pictures,” I admit, trying to take hold of the conversation with something true. I’ve found a few in boxes, but most of the photos I’ve seen of my parents are from Google or blurry videos of performances posted online.
Not much is mine, or personal, aside from what Grams has at her place, which is mostly albums and a few early demos where I can hear them laughing. But it’s not enough.
It could never be.
“I think there’s an old flash drive somewhere,” she says with a sigh. “I’ll dig it up for you.”
“Really?”
“So long as I can find it, it’s yours,” she says. Has she always been this accommodating? Maybe she’s as excited to get me out of her life as I am to leave…
She raises her lips in a smile, and her glass for a cheers, and I don’t tell her about the lipstick on her teeth for fear of ruining the moment. I ignore the mimosa and raise my coffee cup to meet her glass.
She fills me in on what’s going on at the shop—nothing major. She wants to do a sale sometime before fall and asks me if I can train someone on the register system before I leave. What made me put off doing this for so long? Maybe I have been holding myself back by overthinking.
By the time we’re walking back to the shop, I’m readily talking to her about music and new movies. It still skews toward casual conversation, but it’s nice all the same. She’ll never be my favorite person, but we don’t have to be enemies either.
“So, let’s talk about your plan,” she says, her voice low once we’ve returned to the store. “I’m curious—what will you do about your grandmother?”
“I mean, she’ll miss me, I know that, but Grams wants me to be happy,” I reply. “And I’ll visit.”
“People always say that. Still, she’s in a pretty nice retirement community, don’t you think?” she asks with a hum. “Why would I keep up with that expense if I’m not humoring you? That is what you said, right?”
I search my mind. Is that what I said? The words are familiar, but they don’t feel like mine. I shake my head, wanting to deny it. I retrace our conversation and feel lost.
“Uncle Orson said,” I begin, “she’d be taken care of, that there’s money set aside.”
“There’s no contract, no paperwork, and bills that are piling up,” she says. “That style of apartment costs a pretty penny with all the options and activities. You know that, I’m sure.”
“But—”
