Page 24 of People Like Us

“Truly, Lola, I insist. Your room’s been sitting empty for years, and I would love to have a little one in the house again.”

I stirred the pasta with one hand and held the phone between my shoulder and ear with the other. On the counter beside the stove lay the old notebook, spread open where I had left it. My own teenage handwriting slanted across the paper like it had somewhere urgent to be.

I had been pretending to listen to Linda for the better part of ten minutes. “That’s so generous,” I said automatically.

“It’s no trouble at all. Greg’s already talking about setting up the fishing poles in case your boy wants to learn.”

I smiled despite myself. “He’d love that.”

Though whether he would love the pond itself or simply the chance to hit something with a stick remained to be seen. I glanced down at the journal again.

Honey tastes like obedience to me now, the next poem began. The line after it had been crossed out so violently the paper still shone with ink. I brushed my finger over the spot, wishing I could remember what felt so important to say, and even more important to erase.

“You’ll stay as long as you need,” Linda continued. “There’s no sense squeezing everybody into your parents’ place.”

No. There wasn’t.

My father’s trailer had always seemed to shrink in proportion to the number of people inside it. Even laughter sounded trapped there, tangling with the christian radio he kept on.

I recognized the sound of my husband’s car coming down the drive, causing my spine to straighten. A car door shut, then another smaller slam—the backseat where our son had likely kicked his way free before being helped out.

I snapped the notebook closed so fast the sound cracked through the kitchen.

“Lola?” Linda’s voice came.

“Yes—sorry. Just dropped something.”

I opened the cabinet below me and shoved the journal between a baking sheet and a muffin tin. Metal clanged softly around it. Hidden, but not gone.

The front door opened. Little feet thundered through the hallway. “Daddy said I can have ice cream!”

“I said you could if you eat your veggies,” my husband called behind him.

Linda laughed warmly in my ear. “Give my love to your family, and we’ll talk more later.”

“I will. Thank you again.”

When the line clicked dead, I set the phone face down on the counter and drew a steadying breath before turning with a wide smile. My son barreled into my legs, sticky-palmed and sun-warm from the day. I bent to kiss the top of his head, his blonde curls tickling my nose.

His father entered carrying a bag of plastic golf balls and clubs in one hand and fatigue in the slope of his shoulders. He removed the ball cap he had on backwards as he crossed the kitchen, then leaned down to kiss my temple.

“You smell like garlic,” he teased.

“I’ll add perfume to the sauce next time.”

He smiled, jutting his chin toward the phone on the counter. “Who was that?”

“Linda Hayward.”

His brows lifted. “Why?”

I drained the water from the penne into the colander, steam rising thick enough to blur the room. “Because I’ve decided I’m going to the reunion.” I poured noodles into the pot with the sauce, stirring them together. “And,” I continued, too brightly, “my parents’ place is too small to house all of us. Linda offered for us to stay with her.”

He watched me for a moment in the way only someone who had loved you a long time could—patiently, with suspicion sharpened by affection.

“You don’t want to stay with your parents?” he finally asked.

“I don’t want our son staying in a trailer,” I said, setting his plate at the table before him.