Their alarm system beeps, announcing someone has entered. My dad’s gruff, “Who’s there?” echoes down the hallway.
A smile creeps over my mouth when a wall of rich spice hits my nose. “Enchiladas again?”
Something metal clangs in the kitchen. Quick patters of steps slap over the tile until my mom’s face peeks into the entryway.
“Ryder! Oh, get in here.” My mom opens her slender arms wide and wraps me up. “You didn’t tell us you were coming.”
“I texted Dad.” I give her a quick squeeze. “I’m going to help him move some bales, then I’m taking some of his vintage baseball posters.”
My mom tucks a lock of her ice-pale hair behind her ear, and notices Ava for the first time. “Avie.”
Then, it hits.
My mom’s eyes widen, and she looks between the two of us. Awe, wonder, horror? I’m not positive what’s going on in her head, but she clears her throat, loops an arm through Ava’s, and strides back down the hallway. “I just ran into your mom. We were in a rush, but I want to hear all about life.”
And I’m left behind.
I shake my head. It’s how it always was. I was my mom’s blood, but she roped Ava and . . . Drake . . . in as her second and third kids with ease.
Tension gathers in my chest. If Ava is still around, then maybe Drake comes around too. The same collision of both annoyance and gratitude tangles in my gut.
I don’t want Drake being the one to help Dad with the fences. I don’t want Drake making my mom laugh. I don’t want Drake around at all. Yet, if he’s here for my parents when I can’t be it helps with one or two worries I have from being away so much.
I sidestep into the front room. My dad’s head is visible from the back of his recliner.
“Josh,” mom calls from the kitchen.
He doesn’t move.
A small pause follows, then my mom groans in the next room. “Get your hearing aids in. Ryder’s here.”
Dad leans forward in the chair. “I don’t need hearing aids. I was on the phone.”
I’m pretty sure my mom mutters something about Matthew McConaughey waiting for her.
“You weren’t on the phone.”
My dad whips around, a smile instantly spreading over his face. He kicks in the footrest of his recliner and stands, holding out a hand for me to take. “Hey, pal.”
We do the typical handshake, then he pulls me against him, clapping my back.
“Mom still hasn’t figured out your selective hearing yet?”
“She knows.” He laughs. “She just needs to make stuff up to yell at me about since I’m the perfect husband.”
Walls are thin here. My mom snorts and mutters more about perfect and something about Hawaii.
“Oh, I’m taking you,” my dad calls into the kitchen. “If you’d just wait until a certain day of gift giving, for crying out loud.”
“Yeah, keep it up Joshua,” she retorts, “and see what you get under the tree.”
This is my life. Back and forth, love-tinged teasing, and I’ve missed it all season.
Dad chuckles, then grips my shoulder. “Ready to sweat?”
“Always.”
* * *
