Ren stifles a laugh from across the kitchen. When Stevie shoots him a look, he shrugs. “What? Nothing Joni loves more than competitive sports.”
“No one’s going to get hurt playing this game, are they?” my mom asks, as if the mere mention of me playing sports is a promise someone will be injured.
“We’ll be careful,” I tell her.
Hannah pulls a muffin tray out of the oven and bypasses me to deposit it on the island, directly in front of where Stevie is sitting.
“Finally,” Stevie says as she plucks one out and swears, shaking the burn off her hand.
“Finally?” I ask. Next to me, Hannah scoops batter into another tray.
“We haven’t had these in two summers,” Stevie says.
My gaze flicks to Ren. He’s focused on a bag of coffee filters, but I can tell he’s listening by the set of his shoulders. “Why not?” I ask.
“Because they’reJoni’s favorite,” Stevie parrots.
I look at Hannah, hands finding the edge of the counter behind me and curling under as if to support myself. Yesterday, it seemed like it wasn’t that big of a deal that I’d been gone, that everything on the beach was part of the normal course of life at the house. I’d even told myself I was being a touch narcissistic to think anyone even cared: life went on, things were the same. My presence or non-presence didn’t matter all that much.
But now, the absence of this tiny tradition is proof that itdidmatter. I feel a sudden surge of love for Hannah that she remembered they’re my favorite, that she preserved the tradition specially for me.
Hannah must see some of this playing out on my face, because she pats my arm. “I didn’t want to make them without you here,” she says.
“See what happens when you stay holed up in New York?” Stevie says, raising an eyebrow at me. She’s not looking at me with any of her trademark suspicion. Instead, her expression is open, almost questioning, and it has me glancing quickly away. The fact that Stevie has provided me so many opportunities to be honest with her makes keeping things from her hurt all the more.
“Joni’s workinghardin New York.” My mom smiles at me from the table. “Right, honey?”
I swallow. “Yeah,” I say. “Totally.”
The coffee grinder whirs loudly. “Sorry,” Ren says, eyes widening just as I catch the small smile slipping off his face. It feels like a hand has reached out to help me over an icy path: even with all the time gone between us, and even though he doesn’t knowwhy, he can still tell when I’m uncomfortable.
His small effort to redirect things in my favor is thwarted, though, when my mom calls me over to sit down across from her at the kitchen table and slides a hand toward me. “I feel like I’ve hardly talked to you,” she says. “How are you?”
Since I had my first panic attack in high school, when I learned I’d have to retake my second semester of geometry, my therapist mother has been on high alert at any hint of stress from me. Years of therapy have given me the tools to look after myself. Ironically, she never really seems to accept that, so it’s become my practice to share as little as possible, and to color what I do tell her the brightest shade.
“I’m great,” I say. “So happy we’re all together again.”
“Yes, but what aboutyou,” she says, leaning forward like we’re friends talking over drinks at a bar. But her questions only ever make me feel examined, picked apart in a way that has me close up more. Stevie, meanwhile, seems to have gained our mom’s trust and escaped most of her scrutiny.
“I’m fine, Mom,” I tell her, but a slight burn in my chest accompanies the words, some muscle memory unlocked from when I was a teenager.Don’t say too much, don’t say too little, don’t be too happy, don’t be too sad. Neutral, well-adjusted wins the game.
“Tell us more about work, though,” Hannah says from where she’s scooping more batter into a muffin tray.
Her statement prods a finger into my spine, sits me up straighter in my chair. “Work?” I ask, like my mom didn’t already try to bring it up.
“Yes, I want to hear about work too,” my mom says.
“Apparently everyone does,” I mutter.
“What?”
Ren runs the grinder again, this time adding one final, seemingly unnecessary second.
I take it as an opportunity to correct course, smile. “Work is so good. Novo’s the best.” This has been my refrain for so long now that it almost feels like there’s a string pulled at my back, rattling the words out of me.
“We all get to come to the premiere, right?” my mom asks, excitedly tapping her hands against the table across from me.
“Oh, we can’t ask that,” Hannah says.
