Page 75 of Chasing Home

“What? That’s silly. How are you supposed to know if you’re dating someone, then?”

Mama jumps in to save her wife. “I think it’s more of a conversation that’s had rather than a simple question. Like, both people saying they don’t want to be with anyone else. Am I right?”

“You’re right,” Jos says.

Mom huffs. “Okay, in that case. Are you in a relationship with Rory? Have you had the talk? And if so, why haven’t we met her?”

“No. She’s not ready for any of that yet.”

“What?” Mom squeals, sitting forward on the cushion and staring back at us. “She’s not ready? Why not?”

“She’s in town to find answers about her family. Her mind is there first and then on me and us. I’m trying to respect that. Taking things slow. But we’re getting there, I think.”

My chest flares hot at the images of just how slow we took things on the highway last week. The tight, slick feel of her pussy around my fingers keeps me up at night while I jerk off in bed. Christ, I could die just from kissing her. The taste of her tongue . . .

“Daisy mentioned she wasn’t from here. I’d have known who she was if she were from Cherry Peak. So, where is she from, and how long is she here for?” Mama asks.

I gulp, blinking back into this conversation before I get a fucking boner in my parents’ living room. “She’s from Calgary. And she’s here for a few more weeks at least.”

“A few weeks is not enough time,” Mom says, alarmed.

“I know,” I mutter, ignoring the urge to rub at my chest. “I’m completely obsessed with her. All I want is to keep her here with me. I feel it, you know? The knowing that you told us about as kids, Mama.”

Josette doesn’t have a sly remark to throw at me this time. I look at her and watch as she stares at me with the same pouted frown that she has right before she cries. And it isn’t even a beat later that Mom is throwing herself forward and wrapping me in her arms.

“Oh, my boy,” she whispers, sniffling in my ear.

Mama’s jasmine scent hits me before she joins the hug. Her words are spoken so softly I nearly miss them.

“Follow that feeling, Johnny. Grab it, and don’t let it go.”

25

AURORA

Mom: It’s been three weeks since your last check in, Aura. I’ve lost track of the number of unanswered texts I’ve sent.

Mom: I’ll call the police and report you missing if I have to.

Me: How would you know that it isn’t my kidnapper texting you proof of life?

I send the text off before grabbing my coffee from the barista with a grimaced smile and sitting back at the table I chose when I walked in. It would have been ideal not to be dealing with my mother right now as I wait for Wanda to arrive, but what’s a bit more stress when I’m already hanging by a thread?

After waiting nearly a full week for Wanda to get back to Cherry Peak, a text came through last night that nearly sent me into an early grave. It was only a time and a place with a sign-off of her name, but it was enough.

Tomorrow, five @ the bakery. -Wanda

Sleep didn’t come easily after that. Or at all, if you don’t count the seventeen minutes I got before my alarm went off. I feel like a zombie, and I look like one too. First impressions usually matter, but in this case, I hardly think less obvious under-eye circles or a power suit instead of jeans and a tee would do much for me.

My phone starts vibrating in my hand, and when I read the word “Mom” on the screen, I tense up tight. Nine weeks is the longest we’ve ever gone without seeing one another, and three is the longest we’ve gone without speaking, but the nausea I feel at the thought of talking about what happened before I left has kept me from reaching out. It’s unfair, and I’m being stubborn, but I can’t help it this time. This isn’t a situation where I can just turn my feelings off and pretend like nothing’s wrong.

Something is very, very wrong.

With a swallow, I send the call to voicemail. It makes me feel like a fucking child to do it, but when a woman suddenly appears at the edge of my table with slightly narrowed eyes, I drop the thought as if it were nothing.

“Aurora, right?” she asks, not waiting for my answer before yanking the chair opposite of me out from beneath the table and sitting. “You look exactly like you do in your Facebook profile photo. That doesn’t happen often.”

I blink, trying to catch up. “Thank you?”

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