Page 25 of Rewind It Back

“Ma,” I scold.

“Don’t ‘Ma’ me. You know how good my Bolognese is. Best in the neighborhood.”

I shake my head at her but also salivate at the mere thought. She’s in no way wrong.

As much as I love our family dinners in Chicago with all my friends, nothing quite compares to the Sunday feast my mom would prepare growing up. Our Sundays almost always included the entire neighborhood coming over for dinner. It was one of my favorite things about growing up where I did. Everyone was, in a sense, family.

In the years since I moved away from home, my only real concern has been her. The guilt from living far away sits heavy on me. I’m an only child, after all, and that’s how I was raised. Children take care of their parents once they reach a certain age.

A Sunday check-in is a must for her, but we call and text randomly throughout the week too. She’s the best woman I know, always cheered me on, and she’s been through the ringer over the years. She handled it the best she could, but as her only son, I want to protect her.

And yes, I’m a self-proclaimed mama’s boy and completely unashamed about it.

“Who came over today?” I ask her.

“The usual neighborhood suspects, a few of the ladies from my bingo night, and your uncle Mikey.”

My dad’s brother has been going to every Sunday dinner this last year, and my mom’s neighborhood friends have been coming to my childhood home since I was a kid.

The neighborhood consisted of ten staple families, with previous generations living in those same homes long before I was alive. So, when the Harts moved to town, they didn’t just shake up my world, but everyone on the block took an interest in the new family.

“I made semifreddo for dessert,” she continues.

“Ma! What the hell? That’s my favorite.”

“Well, move home and you might get some. Any word from Boston?”

I close the door to Indy’s office, making sure my friends can’t hear me. “You know there won’t be anything concrete until the season is over.”

She sighs into the phone. “I just want you home,Tesoro.”

“I know. I’m working on it.”

There’s a beat of silence on the phone. Yes, I’d love to play for my childhood team. I’d love to live closer to my family. But that’s not without the guilty notion that it’s what I feel Ishoulddo for her.

The truth is, even though I didn’t sign my early extension with Chicago, I haven’t made up my mind that I want to leave. I love it here. My friends are here. In a way, I grew from a boy to a man here, and I’m not sure I’m ready to walk away from this place yet.

“Tell me about your week,” she says. “Then I’ll let you go.”

Without hesitation, my thoughts go to Hallie.

The image of finding her waiting for me outside of practice last Monday, much in the way she used to when we were in high school.

How it felt to see her again. The lack of sleep I’ve gotten from knowing she’s sleeping in the house next to mine. How right it felt to banter with her for a moment. How fucking good she looked by the rink, wearing that blue and white checkered skirt that hugged her hips and thighs. It was topped with a vintage Harley-Davidson sweatshirt that was cropped to show a sliver of her stomach, and she was layered in both gold and silver jewelry. She once told me that style didn’t have rules, and she’s lived by that motto ever since.

Hallie has always been stylish, whether that be in her fashion or interior design. She had the confidence to wear whatever she wanted to, and that confidence made any style of clothing work for her. Even pieces that might seem wacky or loud, that others were afraid to experiment with, Hallie found a way to make them cool.

She once went through this phase where she painted each of her nails a different color, simply because she couldn’t choose one, and even that little quirk started a trend among the girls in our school.

Seeing her again now, seeing the renovation she did on Wren’s house, it’s clear that creative expression hasn’t gone anywhere.

But I don’t tell my mom any of that. I don’t tell her that I’ve thought about my childhood neighbor every day since seeing her again, and I certainly don’t tell her that Hallie is living in Chicago now. It would only further her case that it’s time for me to move home.

Instead, I debrief my games and travel from the week. She tells me about how much money she won at bingo night. We make tentative plans for when I’m in Boston for work next, and she finally lets me go after I promise to get her and Indy on a video call soon so she can teach my best friend how to make her famous Bolognese sauce for one of our family dinners—as if I didn’t grow up watching her cook, and already know exactly how to do it myself.

“Sorry,” I say, exiting Indy’s office to find my friends already around the Shays’ dining room table. “Did I miss anything?”

“Nope. Just got the kids to sleep upstairs,” Stevie says.

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