Page 45 of What We Burn

“Hi, Milo, honey?” A woman’s voice, warm and musical. “Your dads said you had some friends over. I thought maybe they’d all like to stay for lunch? We can put some meat on the grill. I’d love to meet them!”

“Oh my God! Is that your mother?” I hiss as we spring apart like teenagers caught with the door closed.

Knox steps back. Micah’s hands vanish from my hips. Holden is suddenly very interested in the server rack again. I smooth my shirt down so I don’t look like a woman who was thirty seconds away from getting railed.

Milo doesn’t even look up from his keyboard. “No thanks, Mom. We’re busy.”

“It’s no trouble! Your father’s already got the charcoal going⁠—”

“Mom. You know you’re not allowed down here. We agreed. This is my private space.”

“I know, baby, I just thought⁠—”

I can’t help it. I cross the room and open the door before Milo can stop me.

She’s standing on the other side, hand raised like she was about to knock again. And she’s—beautiful. Not in the way I expected Milo’s mother to look. She’s maybe early fifties. Dark hair threaded with silver, pulled into a loose twist, linen apron over a sundress, and she looks like she belongs on the cover of a magazine about women who have their shit together.

She sees me, and her entire face lights up.

“Oh, Milo.” Her hands come together. “Is this kitten?”

Milo is out of his chair so fast it spins into the desk. He’s behind me in three strides, one hand on the door, his body angled between his mother and the room like a goalie blocking a shot.

“Yes, Mom. This is Sage. The love of my life. Can you please go back upstairs so we can work? Okay. Thanks. Bye!”

He closes the door in her face.

I stare at him. “The love of your life?”

“Did I stutter?”

“You told your mother about me.”

“I tell my mother everything. She’s my mom.” He’s already back in his chair, typing again. “Don’t make it weird.”

I look at the others. Micah is smiling. Knox’s shoulders are shaking.

“I want to meet her,” I say, still a little off-balance. “Your mom. She seems—” Normal, I’m about to say, but Milo’s glare dares me to finish the thought. “Nice,” I say instead.

“She is nice,” he grumbles, but his cheeks are red. “Borderline intrusive. But she bakes a fuck ton of banana bread, so I put up with it.”

There’s another rap on the door, this time followed by a muffled, “We’ll be grilling until at least three, honey! Don’t work too hard at your . . . computing stuff.”

She says it like it’s a euphemism.

I love her immediately.

Milo leans back, spinning slow in his chair. “Okay. No sign of a digital breach. If I had to guess, our mystery texter is running their operation from somewhere local, using a burner for the phone and maybe piggybacking on public networks—coffee shops, shopping centers, things like that.” He pauses. “Which means they’re good, but they’re not in our house. So that’s something.”

“Finally, some good news,” Holden agrees.

Milo stands, stretches, cracking his knuckles. “Right. We’re done. Let’s go before my mom sets the table and we’re forced to stay.”

We file up the stairs. I’m bracing for the awkward shuffle to the front door, the polite wave, the escape to the car. But when we reach the dining room, I stop.

The table is set. Not just set—laid out. There are ten places with what you just know is the good china. There are cloth napkins and candles. A giant bowl of potato salad sits in the center next to a pitcher of lemonade. Through the sliding glass door, I can see the backyard—a decent-sized lawn with a charcoal grill billowing smoke. Three men stand around it in their matching turtlenecks. One flips burgers. One arranges corn on the cob. One holds a beer and supervises.

Milo’s mother is nowhere in sight, but the evidence of her is everywhere—the napkins folded into little swans, the wildflowers in a jar at the center of the table, the faint smell of baking underneath the smoke.