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‘Thank you, Mrs Harrington.’
‘Oh lord, would you listen to that accent. And it’s Maggie to you.’ She turns to me. ‘Hello, stranger.’
‘Hey, Mom.’ I let her wrap her arms around me, and I squeeze her a little harder than I probably should. I take in the scent of the lavender shampoo she’s used for years and the powdery smell of her skin. I’ve missed her; I just didn’t appreciate how much until this very moment. No amount of Skype calls can replace the familiarity of her hold.
When we pull apart from one another, she pats my cheeks, then pinches my face between her hands. She turns to Becky, still gripping me. ‘Thank you for bringing my son home.’
‘Oh no, he was desperate to come home, Maggie. He just invited me along for the ride.’
My mother gives me a look that says,Yeah, yeah, and gets back to setting cutlery out in piles on the old farmhouse-style kitchen table.
‘You must be special, Becky,’ announces a new voice, ‘because the last woman Drew brought here, besides Sarah, who doesn’t really count because she’s like his right arm, was Jaci Cuttle in his senior year of high school. Hi, I’m Millie, Drew’s sister.’
Millie swoops in from the garden, carrying empty beer bottles and glasses to be refilled. Her usual Converse, which today are red, match her jeans. She calls them her ‘Mommy shoes’: reliable and comfortable.
‘Hi. I’m Becky, obviously.’
The way her words come out, babbled, I’d guess my family has her flustered. As if she’s found an emergency exit from the rollercoaster line she really didn’t want to be in, she lifts the box that she had taken from her bag outside.
‘I brought dessert.’ She hands over the plastic container. Now I understand the bribes comment. Nice diversion, Cupcake.
My mother opens the box on the counter. Inside is a selection of Becky’s restaurant cakes. She has decorated them just as she would if they were being served in Edmond’s place.
‘These are exquisite,’ my mother tells her. ‘They must have cost you a small fortune. You shouldn’t have. I’m just grilling tonight.’
‘Oh, no, they didn’t cost anything but the price of some flour and sugar. I’m a patisserie chef. I made them myself.’
My mother and sister look at the cakes and back at Becky.
‘You made these?’ Millie asks.
Pride fills my chest. ‘Wait until you taste them. The purple one is incredible.’
‘That’s Drew’s favorite,’ Becky says, smiling at me. We share the briefest moment, and in it, I love that she knows something about me that no one else does. ‘Plus, I hear it’s a special birthday barbeque. I couldn’t turn up without a birthday cake.’
‘Well, it’s very sweet of you. Son, why don’t you take your bags upstairs, and I’ll show Becky around the house and introduce her to the family.’
The anxiousness I felt as we arrived is back. Becky’s opinion matters to me. I realize it matters a lot, and I’m worried what it might be.
‘Which room will Becky sleep in?’ I ask, trying to mask the apprehension I’m feeling.
‘Your room, of course,’ my mother says.
My room. They’ve really never changed it since I left for college, despite my quarterly visits.
‘I’ll be sleeping on the sofa,’ I say for Becky’s ears.
‘You don’t have to do that. This is your home. I’ll take the sofa.’
‘You’re both adults,’ Millie says. Well, I thought my words were for Becky’s ears… ‘Can’t you just share the double?’ Knowingly trying to cause trouble, Millie leaves the kitchen for the outdoor deck. I scowl when she sticks out her tongue across her shoulder.
I take the bags upstairs and find myself standing in the middle of my unchanged bedroom. Everything is blue, from the walls to the wooden desk and the lamp that sits on top of it. Even the rim of the corkboard that’s covered in high school pictures is blue. Mortified, I unpin a few of the more tragic pictures; mostly Brooks and I flipping the bird or pulling shirtless poses for the camera. One, a particularly cringe-worthy image of me topless with a tie knotted around my forehead, is first to be stuffed into the drawer of my desk.
Then I look around the room at the multitude of certificates and trophies that I’ve won for sports and academic honors. Some less embarrassing. Others, like the ‘No.1’ trophy for the state spelling bee in eighth grade, more embarrassing. I contemplate hiding everything before my reputation is obliterated. I could even pretend Millie’s bedroom is mine. Pink beats the heck out of this old crap.
‘Your home is beautiful.’
Becky and Mom are at my bedroom door, and there’s no time for me to fix anything. So much for Drew Clooney-Harrington. More like Alfalfa fromThe Little Rascals.
