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She walks past me, setting her hand on the front exit doorknob.
“Wait! What about you?” I quickly hold up the bag in my hand. “And your breakfast. I brought you a cinnamon roll.”
“Sweetheart,” Mom drops her grasp on the door and moves back to my side. “I’m okay.” She sets a hand on my bristled cheek. “I’m fine.” She’s said the words a hundred times—I’m still not sure they’re true.
“But—”
“But the surgery was more than ten months ago, Levi. The doctor has given me the freedom to do what I want. You don’t have to take care of me anymore.” She smiles up at me, but it doesn’t fill me with encouragement.
“I just think you need to take things slow.” I’ve given this speech a few dozen times as well.
We’re nothing, if not consistent.
“Tenmonths, Levi. Ihavetaken things slow. I can do this.” She takes the paper bag from my hand and opens it up, closing her eyes and lifting it to her nose, she breathes in the fresh-baked good. “I’ll devour this when I get home. Okay, honey?”
I grunt in response.
“Levi,” Mom croons with a laugh. “I thought you didn’t like coffee?” She peers from my shirt to my pant leg and shoe where Max has gone back to licking.
“I don’t.” I grind my teeth. “Some girl in line spat her drink all over me.”
Mom keeps beaming—though I’m not sure why. I don’t find any of this delightful. “Apparently she doesn’t care for it either.” She chuckles as if she’s made a joke—but that’s almost exactly what the girl said to me. “You better go change, you’ll be late.” She peers down at her watch. “Uh-oh, I will be too if I don’t hurry.”
I reach a hand out to her shoulder, not letting her go anywhere just yet. One year ago, my mother didn’trushanywhere. She lay in bed, her kidneys failing her. “Don’t strain yourself,” I tell her.
She sets a hand on top of mine. “I won’t. I’ll be fine. Now, stop fussing over me and go do something for yourself for once. Got it?”
She leaves with a laugh and a smile. But her words play in my head like a broken record.Do something for yourself. What does that even mean? What would that look like?
Is that getting a cinnamon roll for myself or taking some extravagant trip?
I don’t like cinnamon rolls. And I don’t have anywhere to go.
Iunlock the double glass doors to the Bike-A-Lot and hustle inside at ten after ten. Max trots over to his bed beside my cash counter and sits, tail wagging. There are treats in that cupboard and he knows it.
I’m late. All because some little blonde never learned how to drink from a to-go cup. I sigh, knowing the thought is harsh.
It’s not as if customers are waiting to come inside or phones are ringing off the hook.
I’m the manager. The only one to get upset with me would be me.
Still, I have a dozen bikes in the back that need to be repaired. It’s not as if I’ve nothing to do.
And just like that, the bell above the door jingles. Maybe someone has been waiting on me. But then, short, curly brown hair and hazel eyes—just like our mother’s—peer back at me.
Miles. My younger brother, closest in age to me. At four years my junior, he just turned twenty-five. Max nods at him as if maybe Miles will open the drawer and retrieve his milk bone.
“Hey,” Miles says. “I went by the house. Where’s Mom?”
“Yoga,” I say, the word sounding like a curse. But that’s how I feel about yoga at this very moment. Yoga is the dastardly antagonist in some old western, and I am ready to hunt it down.
It would be a whole lot better to gripe about yoga with Miles rather than stew over it all by myself. If I’m going to loathe something, I’d much rather have support in my loathing.
Coco would tell memisery loves company, but I saythe more the merrier.
Only Miles smiles—which doesn’t look at all like loathing. “Nice.” He leans against the shop counter. “Hi, Max,” he says when my dog nudges him in the knee.
“Notnice,” I correct him, ignoring Max’s begging. “She’s there with our eight-month pregnant sister. Coco’s going to go into labor, and who knows what will happen to Mom.”
