by Alex Light
My mom sat beside me on the bed, placed her hand on mine.
“I always loved that photo,” she said. “You know, your dad still talks about that day all the time. It was one of his favorites.”
“Mine too.”
“He was so proud of you, Brett. He still is.”
I put the picture back in the box and picked up another. My mom was in this one. It was sophomore year, after I made the football team at school. It was my first game and my parents had come to watch. They sat in the bleachers, and I remembered how I could hear my dad’s voice yelling over the entire crowd. We took that photo after we had won the game. It was on the desk in my dad’s office until he replaced it with a new one. I kept it here, locked in this box.
My mom rested her head on my shoulder. I knew she was remembering that day too. It felt like a different life, a different timeline where everything was similar and different at once. And for the first time, this tiny, small part of me missed my dad. Missed that weight of his arm on my shoulder.
“Mom? Can I ask you something?” She was sorting through the box, unknotting the laces on my old cleats. “If you didn’t have to worry about me, what would you do about Dad?”
“What do you mean?”
“You said you were trying to protect me. Right? That’s why you didn’t tell me Dad was having an affair. But what if you didn’t have me to worry about? Then what would you do? Would you stay with him? Divorce him? How would you protect yourself?”
She let out a long, tired breath and moved back on my bed until she was sitting against the headboard. She patted the empty spot beside her and I lay down on my back, still clutching that photo between my fingers, that reminder of a different time.
“I think . . . ,” she began, looking up at the ceiling, “I wouldn’t get a divorce. I would stay with him.”
“Why?”
“Because I love him.” She said it so easily. “Because I believe him when he says he’s sorry.”
“But how do you know he really means it?” I asked.
“Because he’s trying, Brett. He’s really trying with these counseling sessions. He wants to make everything okay. Look around you—at this house, this life. He’s spent all these years working so hard so we could have this. I’ve loved your father since I was seventeen years old, and in all those years, this is the one big mistake he’s made. How do we decide if one mistake is worth giving all of this up? The life we’ve built together?”
My mom sat up, placed her hand on my shoulder. I looked her in the eye and I could see it, how much she loved him. How much she wanted to be with him. And all this time I thought this past week was only hard on her because the truth was out. But maybe I was wrong. Maybe it was hard because my dad was staying at the hotel and she was away from the person she loved. And I had made that decision for her out of anger. I took my mom’s choice away because I thought I was protecting her, when really I was only thinking about myself.
“Mom?” I said, holding both her hands in mine. “All I want is for you to be happy. That’s it. And if our family staying the same makes you happy, then . . .” I took a deep breath, forced the words out. “I’m okay with that. I’ll go to counseling. I’ll try with Dad. I’ll try for you. But if you decide that you want everything to change, to get a divorce and never look back, then that’s okay too. I want whatever’s best for you because that’ll be what’s best for me too. Okay?”
I was so used to seeing my mom cry that when the tears started to spill, I didn’t even flinch. And I realized that all I really wanted was for her to not cry anymore. If that meant sitting in an office with Dr. Kim and talking about my feelings or opening the door and letting my dad back inside—I’d do that for her.
I hugged my mom, held her so close to my chest and wished I could make this all okay.
“He’s not a terrible dad, Brett,” she said. “If he was, you wouldn’t have ended up like this, with a heart as big as yours.”
Then she took one last look at the photo and walked away.
I was lifting my hand to knock a second time on Becca’s door when it opened. She took one look at me and her eyes went wide. “Oh no,” she breathed. The door opened a little more and I could see her fully. Messy hair and unicorn pajamas. Not exactly movie attire.
“You forgot,” I said.
“I’m so sorry, Brett. Oh my gosh. I was helping my mom out with this new recipe and I totally lost track of time. I’m sorry. Come in, I’ll get dressed and we can leave. The trailers usually take forever, right? So we won’t miss that much of the movie. Maybe only the opening credits or the first few minutes. . . .”
“Becca.”
“What?”
I pushed open the door, stepped inside, and pulled her to me. “You’re talking very fast,” I said.
She began to smile. “I do that sometimes. Sorry I forgot.”
“It’s okay.”
She pulled my face down to hers. She smelled like vanilla. Tasted like it too. Then her mom walked into the hallway and Becca jumped away from me like she’d been electrocuted.
“Brett, you’re here! I was just saying how we could use another set of hands for this recipe. Want an apron?”
I grinned. “I would love one.”
“Mom,” Becca groaned. “We’re going to watch a movie.”
“No, that’s okay. We can skip it and help,” I said. Clearly not the right answer because Becca looked absolutely mortified as we walked into the kitchen. I swear I heard her whisper my name and “fiasco” under her breath.
“Wonderful! We were just reminiscing about that time I bought Becca an Easy-Bake Oven and she almost lit the kitchen on fire.”
“Oh, I would love to hear that story, Ms. Hart.”
She handed me a bowl and a whisk at the same time as Becca reached out and smacked my shoulder. “This is not okay,” she hissed while her mom went on with the story.
“Nice pajamas,” I whispered back.
I had never seen her look so angry.
“So what are we making?” I asked, shrugging off my jacket and placing it over the chair. The counter was covered with baking sheets, cupcake trays, and some circle pan thing with a hole in the middle.
“That’s a Bundt,” Becca said, following my gaze.
“I knew that.”
She stuck her tongue out.
“We’re making,” her mother began, pressing some buttons on the stove, “a new recipe that is either going to be some sort of cake, sheet cake, or cupcake.”
“My mom is convinced she can make lemon and chocolate taste good together,” Becca explained.
“It will taste great, and it will definitely give jelly bells a run for their money.”
“I’m not sure that’s possible,” Becca added.
“I’m with Becca on that one,” I said.
Her mom pointed a batter-covered spoon at us. “You two wait and see. I have an eye for bringing together unnatural pairings.”
Becca
JENNY SHOWED UP AT MY locker after last period.
“I was thinking of swinging by the bakery and getting a dozen of those jelly bells. You in?” she asked.
I still wasn’t entirely used to the two of us being friends again. It felt like I’d been swept into a wormhole and dropped off in another dimension. Or I’d traveled back in time to freshman year.
I shut my locker, pulled my bag onto my shoulder. “You’re inviting me to my own mother’s business?”
“Is that a yes or no?”
“Yes, obviously.”
We left school together. Walking beside Jenny was the same as walking beside Brett. We couldn’t make it down one hall without at least three different people trying to talk to her. Eventually we escaped, and while we walked down the road to Main Street, Jenny was staring down at her phone.
“Everything okay?”
She looked up. “My brother’s girlfriend broke up with him a few days ago,” she explained. “His social media has been taken over by all t
hese sappy quotes about love he keeps posting.”
“Why’d they break up?”
“He won’t tell me. Or anyone. My parents don’t even know about it.”
“You never really talked about him,” I said, referencing the time we used to be friends. Which, now, didn’t feel so long ago.
“Parker’s in college now, he’s two years older than us. He’s my parents’ pride and joy. They’ve been training him to take over the family business since he was in diapers. He practically sucks all the attention out of every room we’re in.” She must have noticed the way I was looking at her, because she added, “This is not a pity party or anything. I’m not some neglected daughter. I actually like all the attention being on him. Lets me do whatever I want without my parents noticing. What about you? What are your plans after we graduate and leave this dump?”
“No idea,” I said honestly.
“Same. My parents don’t like that. They want to map out my future like they did for Park. But I kind of like not having a destination in mind. It’s like whatever happens, happens. As long as it’s not in Crestmont,” she added, bumping her shoulder against mine.
“Agreed.”
When we walked into the bakery, my mom was standing behind the counter, handing a box to a customer. The place was busier than usual. Almost all the tables were full and there was an actual line that started at the counter and went halfway through the store.
My mom’s face lit up when she spotted the two of us. “Becca!” she called, waving her hands over her head like she was guiding an airplane for landing.
I went to the front of the line, ignoring the dirty looks from one woman who thought I was cutting in. “Why is it so busy? Did those flyers catch on?”
“I wish. A bus broke down off the highway,” she explained. “Long story, but now all of these people are stuck here. And they’re starving. Can you handle the cash register? I need to help Cassandra in the back.”
I looked at the line of customers waiting. My mom was right. They looked exhausted and hungry, like they’d jump over the counter any second.
“Becca?” my mom asked again, holding out her apron.
“I’ll cover cash. Go help in the back.”
“I can help too,” Jenny added.
My mom looked like she was about to hug her. “Stay here with Becca and help with the line,” she said before running off into the back. I quickly put the apron on and got set up behind the counter.
I turned to Jenny, handed her a spare apron. “I’ll take the orders, you prepare them. There’s tongs and boxes behind you. Good?”
She nodded. We faced the line together.
“Next!” I called.
An hour later the line was gone, there were empty cupcake wrappers littering the floor, and half the tables were either missing a chair or had too many extra ones. Cassie was sitting down in one, looking like she’d just run a marathon. We all looked that way.
The door to the bakery opened and we all groaned.
“Welcome to—” I began before Jenny cut me off.
“That’s my brother,” she said, taking off her apron and hanging it on the hook on the wall. I looked at the guy standing in the doorway—curly black hair, dark skin, dressed in slacks and a button-up. He looked different than my vague memory of him.
“Thank you for your help, Jennifer,” my mom said, giving her a quick hug.
“Anytime, Ms. Hart. I’ll see you at school, Becca.” She walked over to her brother and the two of them left without another word.
“That’s Parker?” Cassie gawked, pressing her face into the window and watching them leave. “He looks so different from high school.”
The bell chimed again a few minutes later. A family walked in with two children. I took their order, handed them their food, and they took a seat at the table beside the window.
I watched them eat. The kids had strawberry jelly smeared all over their faces and their mother kept leaning across the table with a napkin to wipe it off. The dad was sitting back in his chair, watching the three of them with a smile on his face. The sugar-packet tower the little boy built tipped over and he started to cry. The mom closed her eyes, like she really needed a break from crying, before her husband reached across the table and started to rebuild the tower. The little boy stopped crying.
It was all so normal. Taking your children to a bakery in town and building towers out of sugar. And even though one of them looked exhausted and the other was crying, the controlled sense of chaos was wrapped in a thin veil of love.
I looked at Cassie, sweeping the floors with half her hair sticking out from her ponytail.
I turned to the window into the back room and saw my mom kneading dough at the counter, flour on her cheeks. She glanced up, spotted me, and smiled.
I looked back at the family and realized not everything had to be conventional. Life didn’t have to fit into a four-sided box that was neat and tidy. It was okay if the box had three sides or the fourth one was hanging on with duct tape. It was okay if the corners were dented and if there was a big red FRAGILE sticker on top.
It was all okay.
I took off my apron and placed it on the counter. “Mom,” I called, running into the back. “Can you and Cass close tonight? I have something I need to do.”
She looked up from the dough. “Of course. Where are you—”
“Thanks!”
There was all this anticipation building up inside me. I felt great. Grand. Energized. Larger than life. I grabbed my coat and ran out the front door before Cassie even looked up from the broom. I was running down the street, my feet following that familiar path they’d walked in secret for too long now. Not anymore. There were no more secrets. After today, there’d be no more FRAGILE sticker on this box.
I ran past the bookstore. Past the church. Past the intersection that led home. I ran and ran and ran until I was standing on his street. I hunched over, hands on my knees, caught my breath, then ran again. I had to keep moving. If I stopped to think, I might turn back around and let another five years pass by. Not anymore. I was tired of having one foot stuck in the past when I was trying to move into the future.
I had let myself fall for Brett. I didn’t hide those feelings down inside me anymore. I shoveled them up and brought them into the light. But there was still a little darkness buried in some corner within me. There were still questions lingering that I had been too scared to say out loud.
I wasn’t scared anymore.
I ran to my dad’s house, up the driveway, and knocked on the door. My heart was beating too fast. Unnaturally fast. I couldn’t breathe and I couldn’t think and then the door was opening and his wife was standing there. There was a baby girl squirming around in her arms.
“Becca,” she said. “You’re back.”
She knew who I was. All this time.
“Is my dad home?” I asked.
“I’m Maeve,” she said, holding out her hand. “It’s nice to officially meet you.”
“My dad—”
“Is probably in his office, nose stuck in a book. I’ll go get him.”
I felt sick, nauseated as she walked down the hall. I told my brain to ignore the book comment but it was all I could focus on. It was so weird that there was this person, this huge part of who I was, living a few streets down from me. He’d felt so far away all these years when he was right here, reading and laughing and having children and starting over.
I almost turned around. I almost ran back down the driveway, but I couldn’t run forever. I had to do this. For myself and for my mom. For Brett. For us. For the future I wanted to have and the person I wanted to be in it.
Footsteps from down the hallway pulled me back to the door, to the person now walking toward me. I had seen him from afar all those days I watched from down the street. But this—this was different. This was real. There were no more separate lives. It was a full-blown collision.
Now I could see the gray strands of hair interspersed with the
brown. I could see the lines wrinkling the corners of his eyes and the hand with that shiny new wedding band. I had never met such a familiar stranger.
“Becca.” His voice took me back to every memory, every moment. “I can’t believe you’re here,” he said, holding his arms out to hug me. “I’ve missed you.”
I didn’t move.
His arms dropped to his sides.
“I live close by,” I said quietly.
His eyebrows crinkled together. It made him look older. “What?”
I cleared my throat. “I live a few streets away. If you really missed me that much, you could have tried to visit.”
His face fell. “You’re right. I’m sorry.” Then he smiled and said, “You’re so grown up. You look just like your mother.”
And that was it. Five years of being absent had led to an uncomfortable conversation between two people who no longer knew each other.
All I wanted was to be around my real family now. Around my mom and Brett. Around Cassie. Around the people who had never let me down.
“I’m not here to repair our relationship. I don’t want you in my life, Dad.” The word slipped out before I could stop it. It felt wrong because “dad” wasn’t just a title. There was so much meaning behind it. Meaning that no longer applied to him.
I thought it was impossible for him to look any sadder than he did right then. “I don’t understand. Then why are you here?” he asked.
I took a deep breath and then I said the words that had been stuck somewhere between my heart and my head for far too long. “I’m here to forgive you. I spent the last five years living with this weight inside of me. A weight that’s there because of you. I tried to forget you. I tried to press the thought of you down until you were nothing but a distant memory and for a while, I thought it worked. . . . But now I’m falling in love. And that made me realize just how much damage you did to my heart.