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I nod stiffly and push away the unease that’s crept up on me. Once he’s gone, I pull out my phone and relax when I see the contact name on the screen.
“Hey, Mom.”
“Hi, sweetie. Are you still at work?”
“I am. Nearly done for the day, though.”
Knowing I’m not going to be able to concentrate on work anymore, I turn off my computer again and lean back in my chair.
“Perfect. I’ve made your favourite for dinner,” Mom preens.
“Baked mac and cheese? Did you intend on bribing your way to a visit tonight?” I tease.
She laughs, and the sound is so bright it has me smiling big enough my cheeks hurt. “You know me too well. I made enough for you to take some home with you for lunches this week. Should I meet you at your house? I could help you hang up some of your photos in the living room that you’ve been putting off.”
“Sounds good. I can leave right now, so give me maybe twenty minutes.”
The sound of hands clapping floats through the call before she says, “I’ll be waiting. Drive safe. Love you.”
“Love you. See you soon.”
I hang up and rush around the office, pulling off my stethoscope and ditching my coat before grabbing my cardigan and slipping it on. After flipping off the light and shutting the office door, I meet Marco by the front desk and give him my best apologetic smile.
“Dinner with my mom. I’m sorry,” I tell him.
If he’s too disappointed by the news, he hides it well, which I appreciate. It’s best not to muddle our good work relationship with dinner dates.
“That’s okay. Maybe another time. Let me walk you to your car at least. I sent Micaela home already.”
“Sure. Thank you.”
He hovers a respectful hand against the middle of my back, and we leave the clinic in silence. After I lock up, he walks me to my car and waits until I’ve driven off before getting into his own.
The radio plays softly as I smile and continue home. Another day down, and a great one at that. It might have taken a boatload of pep talks, but days like these are exactly why I came back home.
Nothing could ruin this for me.
5
BRAXTON
I grew up in a cookie-cutter,wealthy neighbourhood. Every house was built sometime in the past twenty years and, as if forced by some sort of constructional law, given matching high peaks, dark stone and light siding, and tall windows.
Some houses have high fences to keep badgering eyes away or no fencing at all for the purpose of showcasing the intricately landscaped front yards. It’s quiet, with no children playing basketball in the cul-de-sacs or doodling on the sidewalks with chalk. For as long as I can remember, it’s been this way, and as I drive up my parents’ looped driveway, a pang of sadness causes me to brake so suddenly my car lurches forward in front of the garage, the old brakes squealing.
I’ve only been over to my parents’ house twice since I’ve been back in town: the night I moved into my new home, and right now, for an impromptu family meeting ordered by my dad over a phone call this afternoon. Every other time I’ve seen my mother and sister, they’ve come to my house, like for dinner last night, or we’ve gone out.
We’re a close family for the most part—my mom, my sister, and me, that is—and the times I would fly home to visit them during the holidays were special moments for me. I expected to feel some sort of similar homecoming after I came back for good, but instead, I’ve felt like I’m missing something.
My move wasn’t sudden by any means. I’m a planner. I like to know my schedule in advance so that I’m able to fit my life into the appropriate boxes, and I did all of that. So why do I feel so . . . wrong? Like I’m out of place?
It’s probably stress. I’m so happy with the path I chose and how far I’ve come, but running a new business is hard. I knew it would be.
Yeah, it has to be the stress.
The evening sun shines on my bare arms as I skip knocking and walk right into the house. It smells like ginger and oranges, so Mom must have her essential oil diffuser puffing away somewhere close.
“Hello?” I call out, toeing off my flip-flops and padding barefoot across the deep brown walnut floors.
