Three days and not a single hour passed without my head circling back to Demetrius Thornwood, which is an absolutely appalling return on the years I spent chasing him out of it. That's the thing about fifteen years of work. You feel like you've earned something. Closure, maybe. Or at minimum, the decency of not losing your grip on a head of romaine every time you think about a man who broke your heart back when cell phones had antennas.
Apparently, I didn't earn or learn anything in all those years.
Why did he have to be so good looking? And why did he have to sound so damned cold.
Madison? Really? Since when does he call me Madison? I'm Maddie. I've always been Maddie.
Well, that was before. I guess I'm Madison to him now. Not that I'm complaining. I'm over it.
I'm over him.
And in all likelihood, I'll never have the displeasure of seeing him ever again. I close the refrigerator, then glance down at the head of lettuce, still glaring at me from my hand.
Ugh. I'm losing it alright.
I yank the door open and shove the annoying produce in, not caring that it lands right on top of the egg carton. At least, it's out of my hands now.
I chuckle at my own pun like a lunatic. My brain mustn't be in too bad a shape if I can make puns to myself while putting groceries away. Right? Right.
"Maddie?"
Mom's voice comes from behind me. I turn, ready to tell her that I did not, in fact, lose my mind and start laughing at the refrigerator.
"I'm fine." I lie through my teeth. "I was just thinking about a funny video Dad forwarded me last night."
"Oh, of course." She smiles and her tusks pull at her lips, reminding me how much weight she lost.
She goes back to wiping down the counter. She hums a little, the same way she always does, the sound as familiar as the kitchen itself, the scuffed tile and the yellow curtains and the faint smell of that lemon cleaner she loves. I go back to unloading the rest of the bags.
"Did the hospital call?" Mom asks as I put the milk gallon next to the egg-romaine lettuce combo.
"Yesterday." I pull out the Greek yogurt, the eggs, the block of cheddar and place them all neatly on their assigned shelves. "They made me a pretty good offer."
"I'm glad it's a good offer," she says flatly, without inflection, which in itself is never good news. "But it's pretty far."
I know where she's going with this. She's not wrong, but she's not right, either.
"The commute is fine. I'll just catch up on some audiobooks and I won't even see the time passing."
Now that's the most wishful thinking there ever was. It also doesn't convince my mother.
Grace makes a sound that's halfway between a chuckle and snort. A snorckle, if you will.
"That drive is two and a half hours, Maddie."
"Hence the audiobooks." I put the sausages in the refrigerator. Carefully. "I'll just have to load up on my naughty romance novels."
She's quiet for a moment. That quality of quiet that has, over the course of twenty-some years of being my mother, learned to say more than words.
"I'm not moving, Mom," I finally say, unable to stand the silence any longer.
"I didn't say anything about moving."
"You were thinking it loudly." I close the refrigerator and face her. "Listen, Mom, I'm not leaving Saltford Bay. This is where I want to be. With you and Dad."
She sets down her cloth and stares at me with the expression of a woman who has never once been successfully fooled by anything I said.
"We're not your responsibility. You need to go on and live your life."
