Page 30 of The Final Rose

The door swings open again. I’m ready to cuss Sebastian, but it isn’t him who is looking back at me. It’s Anya.

She frowns, with a denim jacket in her hands. We look at each other for a second longer than what is comfortable and then she hands me the jacket, assuming I’ll hang for her.

“I don’t like how weird you’re getting.”

And then she closes the door in my face.

Awesome, Callie. Awesome.

I drive to myparents’ home because it’s Saturday, and the weekend is a great excuse to eat mom’s food, and I don't want to be alone right now. I’m full of nervous energy from being awake for too long.

I had an energy drink while I waited for the morning traffic to clear up and then I got into the car. I shouldn't have. I was hiding in a closet not too long ago, that's a clear sign of insanity. My mom can sniff that shit a mile away.

My cheeks burn in shame when I think about how ridiculous it went with Sebastian today. If I want to keep my job, I need to find a way to relax and take a step back.

I hate the feeling of being watched and that's how I feel since Anya called me out. Like she saw something I wasn't ready to admit to myself.

I'm different this season because he's here. I'm not ready to face that.

Thankfully, I arrive at my parents’ home. As soon as I park and open the door, I hear the music coming from my old neighborhood.

This place is the complete opposite ofThe Final Rosemansion. It feels hotter here, sunnier, and homier. During the weekends, everyone is working on their lawns, people coming and going from their weekend jobs and a couple of barely legal ones are obsessively cleaning their cars with loud music on.

“Ah, Callie! Looking good.”

I turn to the right as Raul wiggles his eyebrow and bites his lips, crossing his arms over his chest in front of the most ridiculous altered car I’ve ever seen.

“I was your babysitter, Raul!” I roar as I open the house’s small gate.

“And I remember every minute!” He doesn’t give up, even when I laugh and I open Mom’s front door.

Inside, things aren’t that different. Mom is playing music in the kitchen as she makestamaleslike she does every weekend.

Coming here was a good idea after all.

Mom is singing and dancing away and I put my arm around her midsection holding her close. Her hands grip me, “Oh, hello, Calliope.”

“How do you always know it’s me?” I release her, not before giving her a kiss on the cheek.

“Because my Callie smells like flowers.” She smiles, turning around to see me. “And because the other options are three men, and I can tell the difference.”

I chuckle, and she takes my chin between her fingers. I’m not quick enough to escape, and she’s turning my head toward the light, watching me with narrowed eyes.

“You look tired.”

“I’d like people to stop saying that.” I step away from her hands.

“Who else is saying you look tired?”

“No one, mom.” I moan. “Can I help with the cooking?”

She grunts, turning to the counter again. “You need a nap, no? How late did you work yesterday?”

Mom hates that none of us have nine-to-five jobs. She’s proud of hard work, whatever it is, but she worries. She thinks Saturdays are for the family and Sundays are for church. Even though Dad had always worked weekends, she still lectured us four, anyway.

“I work hard. Aren’t you proud?” I deflect by bumping my hip on hers, swaying with the music.

“I’m proud of all my children.” She nods. “I’d be prouder if they knew when to quit.”

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