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Holy guacamole, what did I just agree to?
2
“Lucas!” my mom shouts from the porch as my Uber pulls up to the house. She screams with an excitement most people wouldn’t expect from a parent who just saw their child in person at their graduation two days ago. But this is pure Mom.
A crooked, hand-painted sign hangs across the porch: Congrats Grad—Time to get to work. I chew on my tongue to hide my true reaction and steal a glance next door at the Marches’ home, our neighbors since the day we moved to Mesa when I was just a tadpole. My eyes automatically lift to the second-floor bedroom window of my best friend and the artist of my welcome home sign—Adrienne.
Two seconds home and already I’m consumed with thoughts of her. But this time, I tell myself it’s different. For five years, I’ve been on the road—a year of travel abroad followed by four years of college on the East Coast. I went from being around Adrienne practically twenty-four hours, seven days a week, from the moment we met to being on different coasts, different time zones, and living different lives. We went from sharing every thought with each other within moments of having them to following each other on social media, random texts, late-night calls, and the always-too-brief visits home.
I’ve missed her more than my mom’s jerk chicken. More than racing mountain bikes across the heated desert sand. I can’t wait to hold Adrienne in my arms again, breathe in her unique essence, absorb her very special energy. I’ve traveled the world, been to places I had only dreamed about as a child and have studied side by side with students from all over the globe. Yet, there is not another soul anywhere on the planet who compares to Adrienne.
Her live life out loud, I know what I want and I’m going to get it attitude is something I’ve never had. I thought five years away would provide the answers, and in some ways, it has, but not when it comes to the most important things in life. Five years later, and I’m still floundering.
Dad’s friend has a seat waiting for me to start my career in a corporate office twenty miles away. I should be excited, but every time I think about it, my chest fills with a sense of dread. Becoming yet another office drone seems like a quick path to boredom and becoming a zombie. A steadily employed, able to put a roof over my head, tax-paying robot, but still a soulless creature going through the motions.
Mom wraps me in the world’s best mom hug. It’s filled with happiness, warmth, joy, and home. “Weh yuh ah seh?” she asks, her Jamaican accent thick. It always is when she becomes emotional. She’s dressed in a green, gold, and black summer wrap dress, the prideful colors of Jamaica on full display. Her skin is mahogany brown, two shades darker than mine.
A snicker escapes my mouth as Mom kept her patois under wraps during the trip east. Three decades in the United States has removed much of the edge from her accent, but not when she’s like this—home, happy, and filled with emotions.
I’m a born and raised US citizen but know my way around my heritage. “Mi deh yah, yuy know.” My accent is more performative, but it still brings joy to my mom’s face. I’m home and doing well.
Dad nods at me from the porch, coffee cup in his hand, one shoulder pressed to the pole, his feet in a kickstand. He’s the quiet one in the house with a biting humor. He shoots me a smirk before diverting his gaze up toward the sign. “Your girl’s been by.” Dad hides a smile behind a sip of coffee. He’s said his piece. He’s a man of few words. Dad grew up black in the south and doesn’t talk much about his past. Grandpa shares even less, both saying it’s best I concentrate on the future and the opportunities ahead. I suspect their history is part of the reason why we landed in Arizona, of all places.
I stretch my hand back and wave to my travel companion, who stands a few feet away, observing. “Mom, you remember my friend Trent?”
Trent’s hands are stuffed deep into his pockets, shoulders raised. His gaze is lifted, admiring the hand-painted sign. It’s on brand for Adrienne, seven different colors, the letter O’s written like a sunburst. She painted my name in a cartoon font, a reminder she took calligraphy lessons and that we share a history of sitting side by side watching the Powder Puff Girls and Power Rangers together.
Trent is white and lean, standing just five seven, with stringy, dark hair that is both too long and not long enough. He runs a nervous hand through his hair before leaning forward for a handshake.
“Any house guest in the Hobbses’ household gets a hug,” Mom says, squeezing him tight. Mom is aware of Trent’s situation. He lives in Northern California, and he’ll be staying with us for a week while his parents finish the renovations at their home. Trent’s mother is converting Trent’s bedroom into an artist’s studio for her painting. His dad dropped multiple hints last semester that it might be a good idea for him to find and take a job in any place but his hometown. They’ve gotten rid of his childhood bed and dresser and have boxed up everything else. His parents have fallen in love with their empty nest and want to keep it that way. They are not subtle, and I’ve watched the damage their actions have caused Trent over the years.
“I hope you’re hungry. I’ve cooked up some of Lucas’ favorites—slow-braised pork, glazed carrots, and garlic mashed potatoes.” Mom rattles off a menu that is far from my favorites. It’s not just Trent’s living situation I’ve shared with mom. It’s been over a year since his parents have prepared him a home-cooked meal. Mom believes cooking for someone is one of the greatest expressions of true love. When she heard about Trent’s parents, I had to talk her out of hopping on a plane to California to confront them. I convinced her to do this instead.
Her accent was thick with disgust when we spoke on the phone. “Dem crazy Yankees don’t want no chile, shouldn’t have no chile.” I try not to judge because it doesn’t matter. All I know is Trent needs a friend, and that much I can control.
“Oh wow, that sounds delicious. Those are some of my favorite dishes as well.” Trent’s voice hitches, and his eyes water. Trent is a tender soul, and he’ll find his way. I’m hoping his temporary visit here will show him that not all parents act the way his do.
When Trent leans down to grab the handle of his luggage, Mom shoots me a wink. “Trent, I’m sure Lucas told you he has to run out for an errand, but after dinner, Wesley and I are streaming the Obi-Wan series on Disney Plus. We make popcorn from scratch and have a shelf full of bad candies—M&M’s, Raisinets, name your poison.”
Two weeks ago, Mom did not know what Disney Plus was. I gave her my sign-in info and told Dad about Trent. I don’t think they’ve watched a Star Wars movie since the original trilogy played in theaters, but Trent hasn’t stopped talking about it. My parents will do anything to make people feel special. Family means everything to us.
“If you keep saying things like that, I may not leave in a week,” Trent jokes and fails to realize his statement is filled with more truth than he thinks.
“Stay as long as you want. Lucas has been spoiled as an only child.” Mom leads Trent into the house as I shake my head, trailing behind.
I may have been an only child, but I’ve never felt alone. Especially not since moving to Mesa. The girl next door and I have been together since day one so often that she feels like family. At least, she did for many years.
As we get older, things get more complex.
“Be right in,” Trent says as he lets the door close in front of him. He juts his neck for me to step to the side of the porch and points up to the sign. “I assume that’s Adrienne’s handiwork?”
I feel the pull on the tops of my lips, an undeniable sense of joy spreading through my body as my smile provides all the answer he needs.
“And that’s her house?” he asks as his gaze lingers on the two-story, ranch-style, brown-and-gold home I could draw with my eyes closed. “Are you ready for it?”
I nod. Trent is aware of most of my history with Adrienne, but not all of it. He has also been my sounding board as I spent the last three months wrestling whether to tell a lifelong friend that I want more. I’m not sure she is ready – I’m not sure I’m ready. Just the thought of the conversation wrecks my nerves. The cost and damage to our friendship is a heavy price to pay, but my heart reminds me she is worth it. She’s the brightest star in a sky littered with ordinary. If only I could muster up the courage.
“Let me get you settled, and then I’m going to run off to meet Adrienne. Wish me luck.”
