Page 93 of Past the Broken Bridges

In a different state.

Away from family.

Letting fate take charge.

I think that’s scarier for her than it is for me because I’ve accepted my fate, a feat not many people can conquer.

But I know my mother isn’t going to accept it as easily because she hasn’t had to fight the same way I have. I just hope she can forgive me.

Someday.

Eventually, my brother groans from the couch, flopping around like a fish out of water. “I don’t want to spend the rest of the day here if there are no video games. Can we get some food now? There was a Taco Bell down the road.”

“Trust me,” I muse, thinking back to my first night here back in January. “There’s way better food around here than Taco Bell.”

I can feel Mom’s eyes on me, and who knows what she sees? I’m fairly certain mothers have some sort of superpower that children will never be able to understand. She can see right through me at times when I really wish she couldn’t.

But instead of questioning me, she grabs the keys to the rental that she got from the airport and says, “Let’s go before your brother starts gnawing on your couch then. I’ll let you pick where we eat.”

She and I walk out side by side, me tucked under one of her arms, with Bentley trailing behind us. My eyes go to thedoor across the hall briefly, not long enough to catch notice but long enough to know that Banks isn’t home. I haven’t heard from him since Sunday night dinner, and I haven’t reached out either.

He needs time to figure something out, so I’ll respect it.

I don’t have time to feel sad about it when Bentley starts complaining about how hungry he is. I pull my attention to my family, who I’ve missed ten times more than I let myself believe.

“You’re lucky Maggie isn’t here,” I tell the thirteen-year-old in the back seat. “Or else I’d give her your portion of food since she’s not annoying.”

“Then I’d let her puke in your bedroom and wouldn’t clean it up,” he dishes back with a grin. “It’d be like a welcome-home present.”

I stick my tongue out.

He does the same.

Mom exhales dramatically. “Should have known it wouldn’t take long before you two were at each other’s throats.”

I grin at her. “Did you expect any less?”

* * *

I’m sure some college students would hate having their family around for a week during their spring break, but after a few days, I realize how much family means to me. And not just because I have clean clothes that are folded and put away, a polished apartment, and food in the fridge. I can sleep in until eleven to rest my body, opt for silk scarves around my head instead of the wigs that sometimes itch my scalp, and not have to worry about cooking for myself.

I’d like to think that I stay true to who I am even when I’m hiding behind the mask—and inevitably under the wig. Maybe the physical stuff about me changes, but my personality has always been the same. Like how much love I have for the people who came all this way to spend time with me, to see the place I missed for half my life.

When I walk out of my bedroom, I rub my eyes and walk toward the smell of bacon. I stop and smile when I see Dad in front of the stove holding a sizzling pan.

Walking up behind him, I wrap my arms around his waist. “I thought we were meeting you tonight.”

Dad wraps an arm around my shoulders, pulling me over and hugging me to his side. “I figured I’d surprise you early. Your mother and brother went to the store a while ago to grab a few more things because we didn’t have the right ingredients.” He gives me a skeptical look. “I told you to tell me when you needed groceries and didn’t like seeing such an empty kitchen.”

Sheepishly, I steal a piece of crispy bacon from the plate set aside. “I eat plenty.”

I can see from the corner of my eye the way he studies my thin figure. “There were barely any take-out containers in the garbage when I took it out,” he notes, one of his brows raised in question.

Do I tell him that my neighbor has been cooking for us and leaving me leftovers? It’s innocent. Enough. But Dad already asked me how many personal coffee deliveries I got from Banks, so I’d rather not feed his suspicions. “A friend has been teaching me how to cook.”

Now both his eyebrows are touching his receding hairline. “Somebody is teaching you how to cook?” he repeats.

I shrug, hoping it comes off as nonchalance.

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