Page 5 of Just One Summer with the Grumpy

I sat on the left side of the bed to avoid the sunken right and whipped out my phone.

Bridget answered on the first ring. “What do you have to say for yourself?”

Taken aback, I tried to remember our last conversation. Texting, a week ago. I think. “I’m…not sure. What doyouthink I have to say for myself?”

“I knew it. You completely forgot.”

Crap. What had I forgotten? “Uh…”

“Your parents’ anniversary is kind of a big deal. You could have at least sent them a text.”

Right. My parents’ anniversary yesterday. “Wait, how do you even know when that is?”

“Doc Shore baked them a pie and boasted all over town about it. I swear the man only did it to brag about his baking skills to Patti Wilkins, but she didn’t even give him a second glance. Meanwhile, Carlie decided to make a cake because that’s bigger than a pie, so of course Ms. Phillips made her four-layer chocolate death cake to show them all up. Needless to say, your parents could start a bakery with the sweets sitting in their kitchen.”

Our neighbors had spent hours making my folk’s day special, whatever their reasons, and I hadn’t even sent a text. Mom would be crushed. “Dad doesn’t even eat sweets.”

“I told them that, but nobody listens to me.” My friend sighed. “I think the only way to apologize for an oversight this big is to come home and pay them a visit.”

“And by extension, you.”

“Naturally.”

I groaned. “This is where I remind you that I haven’t been home in almost seven years.”

“And this is where I remind you that your parents miss you, and so does Rosie. Horses don’t live forever, you know.”

By that, I knew she was referring to my parents. But Bridget would never say such a thing aloud, not after Dad’s bout with cancer. She didn’t realize it, but I called the doctor twice a year for updates about his condition. Dad would never tell me anything. I knew that from painful experience.

I would never tell him so, but I often lit candles for him at churches, even though I rarely attended. I even avoided walking under ladders or breaking glass, just in case. If I were to see any black cats crossing my path, I would have avoided them too. Anything to feel like I was contributing to his health and well-being.

Anything except giving up and going home.

“Don’t you think it’s time to reconcile?” Bridget asked, her voice softening. “I’m sure they’re sorry about what they did.”

I wasn’t sure at all. Dad only seemed to get more proud as the years went on, and I was my father’s daughter. Talking about that awful day was the last thing I wanted to do right now, though, so I forced lightness into my voice. “Thanks for the reminder. I’ll send them a ‘Happy Anniversary’ e-card with lots of emojis.”

“Don’t make me come down there,” Bridget growled.

I grinned at that. “I thought you’d never offer.” Her last visit had been over the week of Christmas, and we’d somehow managed to squish into my tiny loft for most of her stay. It didn’t quite feel like the old high school days when we’d raced our horses in muddy fields and had sleepovers full of giggling gossip and elaborate future plans involving boys whose names I couldn’t even remember. While my parents had lectured me about my astrology obsession, Bridget had bought me a magic-8 ball for my sixteenth birthday. I’d brought it with me to New York.

“Not a chance,” Bridget objected. “It’s your turn to come here this time. You owe me. Have you ever had to drive an old truck through the streets of New York at Christmastime, looking for parking that doesn’t exist?”

I had to admit I hadn’t. I knew better than to own a car here, not that I could have afforded one anyway. “That does sound terrible. How about I make you a seven-layer chocolate cake to rival Ms. Phillips’?”

“And then you’ll make me come there to get it.”

“Exactly.”

We both laughed, the years melting away as we did. Bridget had visited me at least once a year since I’d left, always bringing baked goodies from Mom and sometimes wrapped gifts as well. In my defense, I always sent her back with gifts too—usually three for each of my parents to cover Christmas, Mother’s or Father’s Day, and their birthdays. Mom kept the gifts in her closet until it was time to open them and gushed about each one over the phone, pretending nothing at all was amiss. Dad always refused to come to the phone, feigning exhaustion or conveniently being gone when I called on holidays. Ours was a stubborn standoff that neither would stoop low enough to end.

“Actually,” I began, “I know you were planning to come in a few weeks, but I need to take a raincheck. Something has come up.” I plugged in my laptop, pulled up my streaming service, and turned on the movie I’d started last night. Cavil’s gritty voice started blaring in the middle of an argument; he looked handsome even in black-and-white with his cowboy hat and leather chaps.

She snorted. “You’re watching it again, aren’t you?”

“Watching what?”

“What do you think?Themovie. You could act out every part by memory. In your sleep and upside down and across the world, with your hands tied.”

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