Page 65 of No Room in the Inn

Gross.

But I don’t say that. I just nod and smile, too. My smile fades, however, when I ask, “Where is Myrtle?”

My mom’s expression falters a little. “She’s on the loveseat.”

I swallow past the sudden lump in my throat. “I’m going to go see her.”

“Of course,” my mom says.

I move past her and into the living room. Sure enough, Myrtle is there, curled into a ball on the loveseat. Her breathing is shallow, and she doesn’t even move when I sit down next to her.

“Hi, sweetheart,” I say, stroking her gently. “How are you?”

Tears sting my eyes, and I swipe at them quickly, hoping my parents don’t see. I find myself wishing I had Nixon or Sarah with me; someone to be a social buffer, to help ease the conversation.

But it’s just me. I continue stroking Myrtle absently, giving myself a pep talk while I do. These are my parents. They love me. They’ve made mistakes, but they’ve done some wonderful, selfless things for me, too. Who knows how much time they gave Myrtle by giving her all the treatment they could? My mom doesn’t even like cats. They did that for me. So this dinner might be a little awkward, but we have to start somewhere.

Because I’m ready. I’m ready to let go of this grudge. I just…I might need some help.

That gives me an idea, though. Looking around me to make sure my parents aren’t in the room, because I’d like some privacy, I bow my head and close my eyes.

“Lord, please help me forgive them,” I pray. “I don’t want to be angry anymore.”

And as I open my eyes again, I feel a furry little nudge against my hand, followed by the low rumble of a purr.

***

Dinner is delicious, because my dad is an awesome cook. I mean, their tofu burgers look disgusting, but I guess they’re used to it. And if anyone could make tofu burgers good—which is impossible, but if itwerepossible—it would be my dad.

“Thank you for making roast,” I say as I finish chewing my last bite.

My stomach is definitely entering food baby territory. Or foodbabies. Twins. Triplets, even. But I don’t get home-cooked meals like this very often, because I don’t cook. I mean, I can make macaroni and cheese from a box. And I’m really good at ordering Chinese. But other than that…nope.

“Of course,” my parents say together. There’s silence for a second while I push the gravy around on my plate. I’m just about to start talking about the weather when my dad says,

“So, where’s your friend?”

Ah. Yes.Thatquestion. It’s ridiculous and embarrassing that I actually feel tears stinging my eyes. It’s insane. I’m more upset about Nixon’s absence than I was when Chauncey dumped me. What does that say about me?

I don’t want to wipe my eyes and give my feelings away, so I just blink extra hard and hope for the best. “Uh, he wasn’t able to make it,” I say. Which is…sort of true? But I can’t quite make myself look either of my parents in the eye. I’m a terrible liar, and I wear my emotions on my sleeve. I don’t want to cry in front of them, and I don’t want them to ask any more questions.

But luck is not on my side.

“Willow?” my mother says, her voice tentative. “Is everything all right?”

To my horror, more tears sting my eyes. I try to swallow past the lump in my throat, but it doesn’t work. And the next thing I know, I’m crying.

My poor father looks absolutely alarmed. “What’s wrong?” he says. “What happened, sweetie?”

“Things were just starting to look up, and then everything went wrong,” I say through my tears. “And I don’t know what happened. We were supposed to go on a date, but then he cancelled and left and now I don’t know where he is and he won’t answer my calls.”

This all sort of rushes out, and I’m not sure how intelligible any of it is. It’s more than I meant to say anyway, and part of me hopes they didn’t understand so that I can brush it off and move past it. Maybe I can dismiss myself to use the restroom and then come back with no tears in my eyes.

Of course, my nose will probably be red, and my eyes will probably be bloodshot, so there’s that. But still, it might be worth a try.

“I didn’t realize the two of you were so close,” my father says before I can implement my admittedly half-baked plan.

I sigh. “I—yeah. I guess we were. He asked me out and then just disappeared.” I shrug, although it’s not as nonchalant as I would like it to be. “It’s fine. I’ll be fine. I’m sure it was just a misunderstanding.”

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