My mom stands beside a cutting board, using what looks like all her strength to squeeze a clove of garlic through a press.
"Mom, let me," I say, hurrying forward when she grabs another clove.
She shoots a look of irritation at me but relinquishes the tool. "Two more after that one, then put it all in the pan."
I do as she says, stirring the mixture after I've followed her instructions. My mouth waters, and I realize I haven't eaten since the breakfast sandwich this morning. My redeye caught up with me and I slept through lunch.
Across the counter, I see two pounds of chicken and more vegetables. "You don't need to make a big dinner for me, Mom. I usually just eat a sandwich or some take-out noodles."
She makes a face. "They don't eat real meals in the big city?"
I stifle a sigh. "They do. You would've seen it firsthand had you accepted my invitations to visit." My words sound harsh, but they are delivered in a soft tone. I didn't come here to expose unhealed wounds.
"I had some things going on, Autumn. You know that."
I nod, staring down at the contents of the pan. But even when she got better, she never visited. Part of me thought it was her way of saying she didn’t agree with my decision to move across the entire country even though she begged me to follow my dreams.
"Turn that down, sweetie, or the garlic will burn."
I do as she says. The air in the kitchen is thick with hurt feelings. And my guilt. So much guilt. I should have moved back years ago, after her first diagnosis. What kind of asshole daughter just sends money to their sick mom and thinks that will fix things?
My head hangs with shame as my throat tightens with emotion. “I should have come back years ago,” I say almost to myself.
Mom's arms wrap around me from behind, resting her head on my shoulder. "Stop, honey. Don't beat yourself up. I'm the one who told you not to come home—"
I shake my head. "I shouldn't have listened to you."
"I'm your mother. I raised you to listen to me." She gives me her no-nonsense tone and I can’t help but grin.
"But you're not always right."
She pulls me spinning me around to face her. Her eyes are wide, surprised. "What? That's not true. Who told you that?"
I laugh and she pulls me closer, until my cheek is pressed to hers. "I should've come to visit you. I was wrong," she whispers.
I raise one eyebrow. "Can I get that in writing?"
I feel her chuckle, and when she pulls back, she keeps me in her arms. "No, you may not. And you'll never get me to admit to saying it, not even in a court of law."
I smile at her playfulness, and try not to show my surprise. Since when is my mom this lighthearted? Cancer has changed her.
"How was your appointment?" I ask, and at the same time the doorbell rings. "Are you expecting someone?"
Her eyebrows pull together. "Normally, yes. But not tonight. He told me he couldn't make it."
He?
I follow her out of the kitchen. "Mom, are you dating someone?"
Hell yeah, Mama, get some.
She ignores me, and I steel myself to meet this mystery man. Do I know him? Oh my gosh, what if he was my childhood principal or something weird?
As I’m preparing myself to meet my mom’s side piece, she opens the door and I swear everything in time freezes in place. The dust motes in the air, the leaves on the trees, the bees on the flowers, everything stands still.
It's him.
Time thaws.
All the air in my lungs escapes.
My body suddenly weighs less; the slightest breeze could carry me away.
"Hi, Faith," Owen says to my mother. His eyes steal over to me and he clears his throat. "Autumn."
His gaze sharpens as it rakes over my body and I suddenly feel like the universe hates me. My hair is in a messy cascade of curls all the way to my back from my nap and I’m wearing fucking sweatpants. My heart races, my chest heaves, I can’t breathe. There is nothing in my stomach, and yet somehow it wants to be sick all over the tile floor.
"Owen." Four letters, and I choke on every one of them.
We stare at each other, and everything flows between us. The love, the pain, the accusations, the years apart, they mix into a concoction of strangling intensity.
I'm not sure how much time passes, because I'm stuck, but my mom's voice breaks through.
"Owen, you changed your mind?"
Um … what? Owen is who my mom normally expects? Why? And how often?
He glances at me, then back to her. "Uh, no." He holds up a white paper bag. "I forgot to give you your prescription earlier. I guess I was distracted."
She takes the bag from his outstretched hand. "Oh, thank you. I forgot too."
He stands in the threshold, an awkward silence taking over the three of us.
His dark brown hair is slicked back, freshly showered by the looks of him, and he’s wearing a nice button-down shirt with dark jeans. Fifteen-year-old Owen was handsome, but twenty-eight-year-old Owen is absolutely yummy. I want to kill him. No one should age that well. How dare he stay so handsome and not gain a hundred pounds and be bald.
Mom reaches for his forearm and pulls him into the house. "You might as well stay and eat,” she coos, giving him a smile. “I made one of your favorites."
I nearly choke on my spit. One of your favorites? What the hell has been happening while I've been across the country? Are these two bff's and nobody told me? Do they have matching necklaces? A secret handshake? This motherfucker stole my mom!
A surge of irritation flows through me.
I pivot and return to the kitchen. I can’t even handle this situation right now; my brain is short circuiting. I don’t see this man for ten years and he waltzes into my mom’s house like he lives here. And I’m in sweats!
In angry haste, I transfer the caramelized onions to a plate, slice the bell peppers and put them in the pan. Once those are cooking, I chop the chicken like I’m murdering it and season it before adding it to a separate pan. I make sure to slam it good and hard so that the entire house knows I’m pissed. I'm heating tortillas when my mom comes in.
She surveys the scene. "I didn't tell you we were having fajitas."
So, she’s totally going to ignore the awkwardness of Owen being here? Awesome.
I shrug. "Lucky guess." There is a growl to my tone.
How weird would it be if I went to my room and put on a sexy black dress and full makeup? I want Owen to feel the satisfying pain of knowing he would never have me, but considering I look homeless right now, I’m not much of a catch to lose.
She snorts. "Or you still know Owen's favorite foods."
Dammit, Mom, going in for the kill.
I don't say anything. Instead, I get out the sour cream, the guacamole, the cilantro.
“Honey, I know you don’t like to talk about him, so that’s why I didn’t mention—”
“It’s fine,” I growl. I’m not mad at her, I’m mad at him and I hope she knows that. I made a rule with my mom a long time ago: no talking about Owen. Now that rule is coming back to bite me in the ass.
Reaching out, she squeezes my shoulders. “You want me to ask him to go?”
Yeah, right, and show how much I care he is here in the first place?