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“Hi,” she says almost as a question.
“Sorry, you probably don’t recognize me. We went to high school together. My name is Shane—”
She cuts me off with a smile. “Shane McPherson. I remember.”
“That’s me.”
“Wow, you look great,” she says. I’m guessing she’s referring to the fact that I’ve beefed up beyond the 110 pounds I was in high school.
“So do you,” I reply.
She gives me a half-hearted smile. “You’re lying, but thank you all the same.”
I have to admit that she doesn’t look quite as bubbly and bright as she was in the photos I saw the other night. But she’s Jenna Mitchell. She will always be a ray of sunshine in my eyes. She’s still gorgeous, despite the hell that she’s been through.
“Nah,” I reply. “I mean it. You look great.”
She changes the subject. “My momma told me you were here working with my brother.”
“How’s your momma doing?”
“She’s fine I suppose. Right now, she’s reorganizing my kitchen and bitching at me the whole time—hence why I’m hiding out here. If she keeps it up, you might want to worry for her safety.” She gives me a soft chuckle.
Suddenly, we hear someone inside call, “Jenna, are you planning on taking a shower any time in the near future? Flies are going to start buzzing around you pretty soon.”
Jenna closes her eyes and shakes her head, but before she can say anything, her momma, Annie Mitchell, walks through the screen door and joins us on the deck.
“Oh,” she stops when she sees me. “Shane, what a surprise! It’s lovely to see you, dear.”
“You too, Mrs. Mitchell.” I tip the brim of my baseball cap at her.
“How are your grandparents doing?” She asks.
“They’re doing well, thank you.”
Jenna chimes in, “Mother, can you please go inside?”
“Will you stop calling memotherlike that?”
“Like what?”
“Like it’s supposed to have The F-Word attached to it.”
“Momma!” Jenna cries. “Can I just have a minute?”
Annie throws her hands up. “Fine. But I meant what I said about that shower.”
“Momma!”
Annie walks back inside, and Jenna buries her face in her hands. “I’m so sorry,” she groans.
“It’s alright. Moms can be that way.” I try to make her feel better, although I don’t even remember my own mother.
“Yeah, I guess,” she mutters. “She was just kidding about that whole shower thing.”
I hold my hand up. “No judgment here. I can’t imagine showers are easy with that thing.” I point to the cast on her leg.
She rolls her eyes. “You have no idea. I’m so sick of it, and it itches like a son-of-a-bitch.”
