Page 54 of If Our Hearts Collide

My pulse quickens with yet another visual reminder that I’m responsible for her suffering. Maybe a warm bath and going shoeless the rest of the day will help her heal faster. It’s not like I can provide any input now with how tense her shoulders look and the way she is deliberately avoiding eye contact.

“Oh, and third,” Donna says loudly, “I made my famous Mississippi pot roast today, and it will be a travesty if you don’t join us, Collins.”

“Umm…”

“With secret ingredient mashed potatoes.”

“I…”

“And a salad with the little candied walnuts and crumbled-up goat cheese…”

I need to make a clean break right now from Penny, and yet here is her mom unintentionally blurring the lines further and taunting me with homemade food.

Donna always makes too much, enough to easily sustain the entire town. I’d be doing her fridge space a favor by staying just this one time.

But I can’t.

“I, um, don’t?—”

“A trav-es-ty,” she reiterates, exaggerating the syllables.

“I’m not sure…”

“Oh dear,” she says, a frown marring her otherwise kind appearance, “you are a newly declared vegetarian?”

“Ha,” I say with a laugh, “no.”

“He probably has plans, Momma,” Penny says, not even bothering to turn around, as the door shuts a bit too loudly.

I spare a glance at Donna, giving her a shrug. “I don’t want to intrude.” I never do. It’s actually part of my life’s mission to never get too personal with people. Sitting down and sharing a meal together seems personal. Sure, I’ve done it here on a holiday, and most recently, Penny’s birthday, but staying now is surely just going to make things worse.

I can’t do worse.

“Nonsense. Don’t be silly. Stay. Eat. Hell, go for a swim if you want. It’s so hot out here, I think my face melted half off. If you see it”—her eyes move around on the ground—“please pick it up for me. New ones cost way too much these days.”

I smile over Donna’s sense of humor. She has this ability to make everyone feel welcome and at home, despite me never really having a solid home after my grandparents passed just months apart.

They tried their best, in the limited time they had with me. So I can’t fault them there. At least they stepped up to the plate when my biological parents didn’t.

So to have this level of welcoming and a sense of motherly compassion is rare for me. I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t refreshing—to be wanted and appreciated. It sure is a contrast to how Penny sees me at the moment.

I think about how I’m going to get out of having to stay. Saying I have other plans seems like a lie that Donna will see through in an instant. She’s not the bullshitting type. I imagine raising boys like Graham and Nic did that to her. While I’m several years older than they are, Donna still treats me like I’m her son. That’s just how she operates.

I rock on my heels, placing my hands into my pockets. I want to decline. I want to just go back to my place and work out until all my simmering animosity is settled. But it’s her eyes and the persuasive kindness that gets me every single time.

Do I even have a choice?

I give a nod, as her lips curl into a satisfied smile.

“I know my boys have you watching out for our Penny.”

“I, um…”

Donna raises her hand up for me to stop. “Well, they actually keep me in the dark on basically everything, but I know. I’m very”—she furrows her brow—“observant. Anyway, Germain and I appreciate it. The least I can do is make sure you are properly fed. It would hurt my heart to think you were going to get takeout from one of those horrible-for-the-environment Styrofoam boxes or worse yet, warm up a meat and cheese pocket thing.” She shudders, placing a hand on my back. “Gross. Come. I insist. You like pot roast, yeah?”

“I love it.”

“Perfect.”

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