“Oh, that’s okay, Summer,” she responds sweetly as I make my way into the kitchen. I turn the corner and see my mother sitting with an unfamiliar man. “It gave me some extra time to get to know Mitch.”
The random stranger gives me a hesitant smile and a wave. I look back and forth between him and my mother incredulously. My mother is beaming at him, as if he’s God’s gift to the world. She’s wearing a nice sweater and skirt with black tights. Her light-brown hair is pulled into a tight bun that any ballerina would be jealous of. She’s gone with a modest makeup look andhas a freshly styled manicure. Mitch wears a light blue button-up and slacks. His light brown hair is combed into submission by a copious amount of hair gel, and thick glasses frame his hazel eyes. There’s something boyish about him, like he’s never been hurt before.
He looks… young.
I slowly look down at my ripped jeans andPan!c at the DiscoT-shirt. I clear my throat and smooth my hands down over my jeans. “Sorry, I wasn’t aware this was something we were dressing up for.”
“Oh, that’s okay,” my mother laughs, as if I’m just her silly, forgetful daughter. “You can go change; dinner will be ready in a jiffy.”
Jiffy? Since when did we start saying that?
“Um, sorry, Mom, but I thought we’d been pretty clear with each other about not having guests over this time, so I didn’t pack anything more formal.”
She blinks at me. Mitch rubs a hand along the back of his neck, clearly uncomfortable.
“Well,” my mother sighs. “That’s alright. I haven’t packed away the clothes you left in your closet. I’m sure there’s something nice in there.” She holds out a hand to gesture at the man beside her. “Mitch, here, is Patrice’s son. He recently moved back here from New York.” She waggles her eyebrows at me, and it takes every ounce of self-control not to visibly grimace. “Exciting, right?”
“Sure,” I reply awkwardly, drawing the word out. I hold my hand out to him, and he jumps to his feet to shake it. “New York, huh? See a lot of Broadway?” I ask because standing in silence seems much worse than polite small talk.
“Mostly worked,” he shrugs. His hand is clammy. When he steps back, I have to resist the urge to wipe my palm on my jeans.
Stomping upstairs and ignoring them both seems incredibly rude and childish, so I continue with another question, “What brought you back this way?”
His eyes dart toward my mother, and he coughs. Clearly, there had been some sort of briefing before I arrived. “Uh, bad breakup,” he says, clearing his throat.
“Ah,” I nod, starting to understand where all this is going. “So, I’m sure the first thing you wanted to do after breaking up with a serious partner and moving across the country is spend a night with strangers.”
“Well, my mother lives in the neighborhood and is friends with Gretchen.” He feebly gestures toward my mother.
If he lives within walking distance, I won’t feel too bad asking him to leave.
“Yes, Gretchen is friends with a lot of women with eligible bachelors for sons.”
“Summer,” my mom snaps. “Just what are you implying?”
I raise an eyebrow at her. “I think we’re all fully aware of what it is I’m implying.”
“Patrice and I are on the HOA board together,” she says by way of explanation. She turns to Mitch and places a delicate hand on his arm. “Summer gets very grumpy after driving all day. She was supposed to be here yesterday, but wasn’t feeling up to making such a long drive.” She shoots me an accusing glare. “I begged her not to go to school across the state, but she’d rather live in the city than spend time with her family.”
Here we go. This argument again.
“It’s just the two of us, Mom,” I sigh. “And you know that had nothing to do with why I chose my school.”
She sniffs. “You could’ve fooled me.”
“Look.” I put my hand up, trying to diffuse the situation. “I’m sure poor Mitch here doesn’t want to hear us gripe at each other.”
“I grew up with four siblings and divorced parents; I’m actually quite used to bickering,” he adds helpfully.
Both my mother and I stare at him for a beat, then I speak up. “Um, I’m sorry?”
“I’m one of the younger siblings, so I’m used to it.”
I nod. “All right, well, I hate to call this an early night, Mitch, but I think my mother and I will just do Thanksgiving alone this year. Do you mind?—”
My mother cuts me off with a shrill voice. “Absolutely not, Summer! We are not kicking him out onThanksgiving. What kind of hosts would we be?”
“Well, I’m not hosting, and as I said, I thought we had both been in agreement that Thanksgiving would just be us this year.”
