“Palmer, do you see us? Your parents are right here. Yoo-hoo, Palmer!”
“Yes, I see you,” I shout over the herd of people before me. They all turn to give me a look but keep moving.
I adjust my sunglasses over my eyes, tug on the neck pillow I have draped around the back of my neck, and clutch tightly my two rollie suitcases that are half my size. Being broke means you don’t get to fly the way you prefer. Instead of sitting up in first class with a glass of champagne and enough space to warrant sitting cross-legged, I sat back by the toilets, where someone must have eaten something foul at the airport because they were occupying the lavatory for an uncomfortable amount of time. Not to mention I purchased a ticket for cheap, which was evident in the lack of cushioning in the seats, the tray table that was the size of my palm, and the surcharge for bags and a drink, and I’m pretty sure they charged me for a seat belt too.
“There she is,” Mom says as I finally make my way to them. “Our baby girl.”
“Hey, Mo—”
I’m scooped into a hug, my face planted straight into my mom’s shoulder.
She strokes my head as she swooshes our bodies back and forth in a bear hug that knocks my suitcases from my hands as I struggle to keep my balance.
“Our baby girl,” she repeats over and over as she kisses my cheek. “Look at you and your little bob cut. Martin, do you see her hair? See how short it is. Look at her hair.”
“Is it a different color?” Dad asks with a confused grimace. “I thought you had red hair. That’s what you were born with.”
Holding back the necessary eye roll, I pry myself from my mom’s arms. “Laramie put in some highlights last night for me. It’s strawberry blonde.”
“Is that what the kids are calling it these days? Fruit hair?” Dad chuckles to himself and pulls me into a hug. “You look great.” He kisses the top of my head, and then together we roll my bags to their red Subaru Outback that they’ve had for I believe at least ten years. For people who have millions in their bank account, they sure do live the simple life.
“You packed an awful lot, don’t you think?” Dad asks, shoving my bags in the back, and that’s when I notice his ill-matched socks. A tube sock with red stripes and an ankle sock with neon letters on the side. What on earth is that about?
“Thought I would stay for a month or two—I plan on doing a showcase on the PNW cuisine.”
I prepare myself for my mom’s excited squeal, but it doesn’t come. I glance at my parents. They’re looking at each other, eyes wide.
“Did you hear me?” I ask. “I plan on staying for a couple of months . . . with you guys . . . in your home.”
They continue to exchange odd looks.
“Uh . . . I’m going to be living with you.” I snap my fingers at them. “Did you hear me. Hello? Mom? Your baby girl will be available to squeeze whenever you want.”
When she doesn’t say anything, the hairs on the back of my neck start to rise with concern. Why isn’t she screaming from the rooftops? Why isn’t she doing a mom jig in her mom jeans with her mom moves, mom fingers pointing to the heavens? Why is she standing there, stunned, like a deer caught in the headlights?
Finally, she says, “You know, honey, you’ve had a long travel day. Why don’t we talk about this later?” She places her hand on the small of my back. “Come, come. Get in the car.”
“But . . . I said I was staying for a while,” I say, confused, my eyes darting between my parents. “Breakfast with your baby for months. Why aren’t you thrilled?”
CHAPTER FIVE
COOPER
Car parked, hands on the steering wheel, I stare at the simple craftsman-style house with cedar-shake exterior that I used to call home. The sun is setting over the large, serene lake that stretches just beyond the house, and the interior lights illuminate the windows with a welcoming glow. I don’t see a rental car in the driveway, which means Ford isn’t here yet. Not surprising. He’s probably still finishing up some work. The man barely pauses long enough during the day for meals.
Sighing, I unclip my seat belt and hop out of my car after making the trip to Marina Island for the fifth time this week. It’s gotten to the point where I’ve started to leave work early, only to finish things up while on the ferry, so I’m not stuck in the commuter traffic.
The phone calls from my parents asking for help have become, I hate to say it, obnoxious. Being the only child who lives near them—half an hour away, to be exact—I’m the one they rely on for pretty much everything—sometimes even the simplest issues, like a clogged sink. They refuse to call a handyman, because even though they have money, they don’t dare spend it. Instead, they call on me, and it’s impossible to say no, especially when I know they took a chance on two kids in the foster care system. I owe everything to them, even if they drive me insane almost every day.
And I know I can bitch about having to come here all the time, but with my parents getting older, and considering their popularity on the island, I wouldn’t want anyone taking advantage of them.
I walk up to the house, but before knocking, I stand on the front porch, my mind drifting back to the time we attempted a family photo shoot before Ford left for college. My straitlaced older brother was hungover from saying goodbye to his friends and kept falling into the bushes. Dad was so flustered and angry that we wound up with a picture of him gripping the back of Ford’s shirt to hold him up while Mom had her arms wrapped around Palmer and me. Smiling to myself, I come back to the present, where the bushes are overgrown and the porch’s stain is chipping—though I can’t bring myself to mind at the moment.
I decide not to bother knocking on the door—I let myself in, and I’m immediately greeted by the sound of my parents laughing, followed by a “Cooper, is that you?”
“Yup,” I say, slipping off my boots. I head down the hallway and into the kitchen, where I stumble to a stop. “Palmer?”
My sister waves to me from the kitchen table with a big smile on her face.
“When the hell did you get here?”
She hops up from her seat and comes up to me to give me a big hug. The shorty of the family, she doesn’t even reach my chin barefoot. “About an hour ago. Can you smell the plane on me?”
“Gross . . . no.” I push her away, and she laughs. “When did you decide to come out here early?”
“A few days ago.” She shrugs and pulls her gray knit sweater around her waist. “Thought it would be fun to get in touch with my roots again.” She gives me a quick once-over. “Look at you, Mr. Style.” Her toe nudges my pants. “When did you start wearing cuffed, formfitting jeans? And look at that hair—very lumber-sexual.”
I run my hand over my hair. “It’s been like this for a while. You would know if you came home more often.” I add a smirk with my comment, so she knows I’m joking . . . well, partially joking. I can’t recall the last time she was on the West Coast, let alone here, in our home.
“Well, I’d be more informed if you had a social media account where I could stalk you and the obvious changes you’re making in your appearance.” She touches my shoulder. “Have you been working out?”