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“Honestly, the two of you are like peas in a pod. Can’t get anyone to listen in this household,” she rattles off, moving toward the sink as she starts to wash up.
My dad shrugs his shoulders and heads out the back door with his fishing hat on.
Even at the sink, my mom continues to talk a mile a minute. I take my phone out of my pocket looking for some social media relief when I see a text on the front screen.
Haden: Hope you got there safe. I’ve got my black belt packed.
With Mom still going on about breastfeeding versus bottle feeding, I scramble to send him a text before she realizes I’m not paying attention.
Me: Pack a new set of ears. My mom has not stopped talking since I got here. Apparently, I should be looking at colleges now because there’s a waiting list.
The exhaustion from traveling finally catches up with me, so I excuse myself to take a short nap. I wake up in a blind panic and disorientated realizing I have slept through to the morning. My mom didn’t even have the heart to wake me. The time on my phone says eight, and another text is sitting on my homescreen.
Haden: We, Presley. We should be looking. We’re both parents to this baby.
Huh? There is no time to think about his text as I race out of bed and into the shower. Within minutes, I’ve hopped out and dressed in a simple white dress that sits a lot shorter than normal. With my wedges on and my hair tied into a bun to avoid the sweltering heat, I make my way downstairs. The aroma of pancakes lingers in the air, which can only mean one thing—maple syrup. I’m eating for two, and boy does my mother stack them on the plate.
As predicted, my mom eyes my dress. “That dress is a bit short, don’t you think?”
Rolling my eyes at her, the stupid side of me mentions that I haven’t really purchased any maternity wear apart from that black dress. With a light bulb going off in her head, she rushes to the bottom of the stairs.
“I’ve got a box of stuff in the attic. George,” she yells to my dad.
Why, oh why, did I say that? I just know she’ll pull out some muumuu with a horrific pattern from the ‘80s.
“I’ll be back in a jiffy.” She darts out of the room, leaving me alone with my almost finished stack of pancakes.
Knowing Haden will be here soon, I use the moment to relax and read the local paper. Nothing much has changed, a few new marriages and births, but as usual, the town carries on without much excitement. There is a whole page about a carnival coming in for the night. Sounds like fun if you’re ten.
My mom is talking to herself again, carrying some boxes down the stairs. The sound of an engine pulls up at the house, and I look at my mom to see her reaction. She has her stern parental face on, and Dad is walking down the stairs with his rifle in hand. All right, he doesn’t, and that’s a bit overboard, but I do know he has a pocketknife ready.
I wipe my mouth with the napkin and make my way to the porch. There is the sound of the trunk shutting closed and behind it, Haden appears. That stupid flutter, the one that gets all my panties in a twist, makes another appearance. With every fiber of my being, I’m trying to ignore how gorgeous he looks in his natural-colored denim shorts, light gray tee, and a pair of Chucks—my damn weakness. Jason hated them. He called them skater shoes and also wore Jesus sandals.
For someone who just traveled on a plane, he looks refreshed, his hair perfectly styled to the side, and a freshly shaven face. With a warm smile, he greets me, fully aware that my parents are standing right behind me.
“Mr. and Mrs. Malone, it’s a pleasure to meet you.” He reaches out his hand, but my mom embraces him instead. What the hell? What happened to this lecture on how utterly disappointed she was that such a young man would be irresponsible enough to have sex with an older woman, and if his parents didn’t teach him to have any morals, then maybe she should?
What a load of bullshit from the woman smiling and acting all friendly with him.
My dad, on the other hand… well, his face says it all.
“So, you’re the one who knocked up my poodle?”
Haden pulls away from my mom and looks at me confused. “Um, I like women, sir. I’m not into bestiality.”
“He means me,” I complain. “Dad has called me poodle since forever. You know, ’cause of my curly hair.”
“Oh… right, I get it. I guess I’m the one who knocked up your poodle then,” he says, amused.
“So, what are you going to do about it?”
“George, please. Let the boy at least place his bags down before you get all wound up.” My mom ushers him into the house, asking him how his trip went and if he wants a drink.
My dad, on the other hand, pulls me aside. “Jesus, poodle, is he still in college?”
“Dad!” I groan. “He’s twenty-six.”
“Back in my day, you didn’t marry women older than you.”
