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“Thank you for this.” I tap the plate with my fingernail while studying her for any indication that she knows about Dad’s decision.
Her hair is pulled back into a simple ponytail, her face is free of makeup, and her eyes are red and puffy like she’s been crying.
Safe to say Dad told her.
“I’m sorry.” I pick up the toast smothered with honey from our hives and take a nibble, hoping it will settle my nausea.
Mom plasters on a grin with a level of cheerfulness I can tell she doesn’t feel. “You have nothing to be sorry for.”
“Don’t be mad at Dad, okay?”
“I’m not.”
“Really?”
“Really.” She goes over to my closet and starts sorting through my shirts. “You’ve got a big day ahead. Are you sure you’re up for it?”
I shrug. “I can do these tours in my sleep, and I might have to if I can’t wake myself up a little more. I guess Ellister can just deal with my snoring. I hope he doesn’t mind if I use his shoulder as a pillow.”
My joke falls flat, and Mom’s eyes hold even more concern as she glances at me over her shoulder with pursed lips.
“Kidding,” I tack on. “Don’t worry. It should be a piece of cake. I’m used to herding, like, thirty people at once. Most of them kids. This is just one guy.”
One guy I’m not looking forward to spending the day with.
Okay, that’s a lie.
There are so many reasons to be wary of Ellister—the worst being his deceit, but I can’t help the way my heart pitter-patters at the thought of seeing him again. I’m antsy and itchy to be near him.
“Yes, I suppose it will be a leisurely day,” Mom says optimistically. “You won’t have a schedule to follow. Just take your time as you show our… guest around.”
From the way my mom is avoiding saying Ellister’s name, I get the feeling she’s not a fan of him either. Can’t say I blame her. She must’ve gotten the shock of her life when Dad told her he wants to sell the place.
Nodding, I try to match her positivity, and tease, “It’ll be like taking a drive down memory lane—literally.”
I expect Mom to give a little snicker. A smile maybe. Anything to show some humor.
The reason it’s funny is because we’ve named all the lanes around here. They’re not on an official map or anything, but we love puns, and the main road winding through the woods is called Memory Lane. Aptly so, since it’s where Great Grandpa Waylon tapped his first tree. On wooden posts spaced out every fifty feet, there are plaques in his honor and all the awards our farm has won for best syrup over the years.
“A cold front came through last night, so you’ll want to wear something a little warmer today.” Mom lays some jeans across the end of the bed. As she sorts through my shirts, she considers a long-sleeve pink tunic. But then she puts it back and mutters, “No, that’s not quite right,” before finding a light blue shirt with the passive-aggressive quote, HAVE THE DAY YOU DESERVE.
Chuckling at her pettiness, I send her a soft smile. “Perfect choice. But I can still pick out my own clothes, you know.”
“I know. I just love being your mom. I want to do it for as long as I can.” The last part of her statement ends with a squeak as her composure crumbles.
Oh, no.
Mom’s really good at holding herself together. Until she’s not.
When she falls apart, it’s like a dam bursting.
Helpless, I watch as a full breakdown ensues, and she buries her face in her hands, sobbing, shoulders shaking.
“Oh, Mom.” I reach for her, but she’s too far away. “Is it because of the farm?”
“No, not even a little,” she replies behind her palms. “All I care about is you.”
“Come here.” I pat the mattress next to me, and she sinks to the space.
