Page 31 of Falling Back to You

“Pick you up at six?”

I waved a hand around the dirty kitchen. “I’ll be here.” Talk to him. Just talk to him. “Hey, there’s something I need to talk to you about tonight.”

His shoulders tightened a fraction, and he rubbed his thumb absently against his jeans. “Oh . . . sure.” He shifted uncomfortably but, in a blink, shifted back to his sunny self, his grin blinding. “Love you.” Giving me another kiss, he bolted out the door.

“Love you, too,” I whispered, but he was already gone.

He was so energetic, my golden retriever of a man. Seattle. It would be nice to get away. I shook my head, berating myself for the thought. Not get away. Spread our wings without family involvement. Or more accurately, my family’s involvement.

Slipping off my apron, I straightened my messy curls and touched up my smudged lipstick. Always a kissing hazard. Time to grab Ruby.

But my keys weren’t hanging up.

I growled and called Olive on my cell. “Did you take my car?” I asked without preamble.

“You didn’t need it.”

“Olive, it’s my car! I bought it. You have to ask.” Chatter in the background echoed over the line. “Where are you?”

Olive tittered when a male voice murmured something. “You’re overreacting, Elle. I’m in Boise. Gotta go!”

“Boise!” I screeched, but she’d hung up on me.

Breathe, Noelle. Breathe. Don’t get angry. Good girls don’t get angry. My sixteen-year-old sister had commandeered my car and driven to Boise without mentioning it. With a man.

I shot my dad a quick text.

ME:

Olive took my car. Borrowing the truck to grab Ruby.

He gave the message a thumbs-up.

No reaction. Nothing.

Blowing out a breath, I locked up the house and hurried through the broiling afternoon heat towards the truck.

I couldn’t get out of this town soon enough.

Family Dinner Number 137 where someone was missing from the table. This time it was three someones. Olive was still traipsing who knows where. Dad was working late—again—and Mom had a committee meeting. At least, that’s what she said. Part of me dreaded that was code for meeting with her paramour. My stomach roiled despite the smile I tacked on as I scuttled three plates of spaghetti onto the table.

Phoebe grabbed her plate without a word and headed for the stairs.

“Eat down here please,” I called after her. The idea of spaghetti dishes staying in her room for days haunted my dreams.

“You’re not my mother,” Phoebe retorted.

I wasn’t, but I had to act like it most days. “Table or outside. No food upstairs. You know the rules.”

Phoebe shot me a dirty look but stomped back to the dining room, dropping into her chair and proceeding to poke her food. At fourteen, she was following in Olive’s footsteps—rebellious and sulky.

Just peachy.

Ten-year-old Quinn shifted uncomfortably in her seat and nibbled at her food. Ruby was the only one who didn’t pick up on the tension or Phoebe’s stony silence. She chattered amiably about her afternoon at VBS in between slurping up noodles, sauce smeared on her chin. Oh, the joy of being six and carefree.

I washed up while the girls finished. There was no way they were going to do the dishes themselves and I’d rather not come home after a date to be plunged back into the reality of soapsuds.

It was the same thing everyday. Laundry, cooking, dishes. Lather, rinse, repeat. And that was with two jobs on top of everything.