Page 52 of Peaches

“I can’t. Not when Brooks?—”

“Rhett,” he interjects. “There’s plenty of bad around us right now, we both fucking know it. You finding a slice of good to enjoy doesn’t make you any less of a man when it counts.”

He walks away before I can say anything else.

CHAPTERTWENTY

OLIVIA

Ihave the morning off. My shift at the café doesn’t start until late afternoon, and I spend the first few hours of the day utterly restless in my own skin. There’s a worry coiling tight in my chest, an unease about the way Rhett was so obviously lost inside of himself last night. And the way he left me this morning . . . this time without a note and almost no indication that he’d even been here at all, completely unlike the last time he’d left me sleeping in my bed.

If it weren’t for the still half-full tub of cold water in the bathroom, I might have thought I dreamt the whole thing up. But the sight of the tub knocked through me like a bowling ball. Rhetthadbeen here last night, had kissed me and held me and pushed his body into mine in more new ways that I want to hold fast to, but there’s a sinking feeling in my gut, a gnawing concern that he’s struggling even more than I realized.

I just don’t know what the point of anything is.

The words had been raw and honest, and the weight of them . . . it’d been enough to thread through me and pull tight. I’d wanted to loosen the tension of them, to remind him that he was good and safe and trusted. I’d wanted him to have a little reprieve from the dark corners of his mind, and while I don’t regret a second of it, I’d be lying if I said it didn’t hurt a little to wake up alone.

Eventually, I wrestle my energy toward an impulsive plan to talk to my mother about Charleston. I figure I can play it safe enough . . . Rhett’s right, Idowant to go. I want to see these people for myself and make my own determinations about their potential place in my life, and though I’m still extremely nervous about hurting Mom in the process, I think I can navigate a conversation strategically enough to feel out what she might think.

I was barely nineteen when I moved out of the house I grew up in: a dainty cottage at the head of a cul-de-sac that sits just off the main road in town. Less than a five-minute walk from the café, it’s where Mom settled shortly after she bought it. And while I’ve always known I wanted to stay in Saddlebrook Falls and take over the business someday, I’ve also wanted to slice out my own brand of autonomy.

Still, I love going home. It’s the house that built me—builtus—into the strong, independent women we both are today. Where Mom taught me about kindness and perseverance and where I learned that, no matter what, I could always take care of myself. I didn’t need a traditional nuclear family dynamic to be genuinely happy—I had her, and it was enough.

As I pull along the front curb now, it’s hard to take in the navy-blue trim and shutters against the bright splash of red gardenias and not ache for all the ways Mom made sure we had a good life. I picture our silhouettes in that big front window, dancing to Shania Twain—or, on a rare, cruel day, Alanis Morrisette—in our matching terrycloth robes as the sun bled along the horizon, a cold glass of white wine clutched in Mom’s hand and a lukewarm peppermint tea wrapped in mine.

I mean it when I say we’ve always had a good life. Despite the worry and needling andjudgementfrom neighbors all around us, I never felt like I was missing a single thing without a father. It’s a truth that winds through me now as I stare at the front door and find the bravery for a conversation that revolves around the man who left us.

Sighing, I pull my key from the ignition and push open my door. The cool morning air bursts across my face and sends a shiver through my limbs—it’s gloomy today, the sky heavy with what looks like an impending rainstorm. Pulling my denim jacket tighter around me, I climb the wide brick steps up to the front door.

Inside, the house is warm and full of the familiar scents of vanilla candles and lavender laundry detergent. It’s a small two-bedroom, not much bigger than mine, and smells always had a way of seeping through the entire house. There’s a fire roaring in the hearth, warming the living room, and I notice two white ceramic mugs set on the coffee table in front of the couch, the label of a teabag hanging from each lip.

Two mugs, I realize.

I didn’t tell Mom I was coming by this morning—I never do. I’ve always just walked through the door like I still live here, and she’s never given me a reason to think I shouldn’t. But the sight of those steaming mugs, the crackling fire behind them, it all sends a jolt of awareness through me.

I don’t think my mom is alone.

Something clatters in the kitchen, and I hear her bright laugh crack through the quiet of the house. A low murmur trails behind the sound, and my feet are moving before my brain catches up to what’s happening. Turning the corner around a yellow-painted wall, I find my mother perched up on the center island in a dazzling green pajama set patterned with frogs wearing pink dresses in various poses. Her red curls are unbound and spill across her back and in front of her right shoulder, and her cheeks are flushed and bunched with a wide, beaming smile.

And standing against the counter across from her is Mark.

Mark who, to my surprise, iswithouta shirt.

Only a pair of loose black sweatpants wrap around his hips as he works over something sizzling on the stove. His hair is ruffled and sticking up at odd angles and his face is still etched with sleep. It’s painfully obvious that this is the aftermath of a sleepover, and based on how comfortable Mark looks in this kitchen, I’d guess it’s not the first time.

“Mom?” I turn to look back at her.

Her gaze snaps to mine, brows arching high as a smile lifts her mouth. The surprise in her eyes is evident, but there’s no trace of the frantic edge that comes with being caught. Unlike Mark, who looks like he might shit a brick with the way he startles.

“Lovebean!” Mom exclaims, jumping down from the edge of the island and moving toward me with her arms stretched wide. She pulls me into a tight hug, her wild hair pressing into my face, and I can smell the traces of Mark’s spiced cologne in it.

“Good morning,” I say around a short laugh, checking out the country gravy Mark’s got simmering in a pot. A baking sheet of fresh biscuits cools on the counter and, despite the unbelievable awkwardness of this moment, my mouth waters. “Special occasion?” I ask pointedly.

Mom shrugs. “Nah.”

I nod, taking this all in. “Right.”

“You hungry?” Mark asks, looking a little worse for wear as sweat seeps from his temples. He’s totally freaking out but trying so hard to act normal.

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