Page 43 of How to Kiss a Hawthorne Brother
It doesn’t matter that I said those words when I was sixteen and spitting mad over Mama grounding me instead of letting me go up to Stonebrook to stargaze with the Hawthornes. She reminds me every time we talk how much I don’t need her.
It only ever makes me want to prove her right.
“I gotta go, okay?” I say.
“Wait, Kate. That was . . . I’m sorry. Let me try again.”
I pause. An apology is new. We’ve had this conversation what feels like a thousand times. But she’s never apologized. “Okay.”
“I did love Silver Creek. Idolove it. But I also love Freemont.”
But you didn’t love Dad?The question sits on the tip of my tongue, but I can’t bring myself to ask it. It’s why they divorced, after all. Dad wanted a life that was bigger than Silver Creek, and Mom refused to leave.
“I’ll keep you posted on my progress with the house, okay?”
“All right, dear. But don’t rush on my account. Enjoy yourself. Enjoy Silver Creek.”
“I thought you called to see if I’d met with the realtor yet. Aren’t you anxious for me to finish?”
“Me? No! The opposite, actually. Freemont even thinks we could wait until fall to sell. Benefit from all the leaf-lookers that come through town. How’s the Subaru driving?”
I... am so confused. Mom called me home to get the house ready to sell, but now she wants me to take my time and enjoy Silver Creek? I would understand her wanting me home if she was also here, but she hasn’t even mentioned coming up from Florida.
“Katherine?” she says. “Did I lose you?”
“No, I’m here. The car is fine. It’s driving great.”
“All right, well, carry on. I’ll call you next week.”
I hang up the phone and look around the cluttered room, feeling slightly derailed from my conversation with Mom.
A few things in the house still feel familiar. The 1992 edition of Encyclopedia Britannica that lines the bottom of the bookshelf in the corner. The plastic tablecloth on the kitchen table. And of course, my childhood bedroom is exactly like I left it. But everything I’ve pulled out of Grandma Nora’s closets? Digging through her dresser drawers? It feels like I’m rooting through someone else’s belongings.
It makes me feel detached. Somehow separated from my own life. This was myhomefor almost eighteen years, but it doesn’t feel like it. My eyes catch on the crocheted afghan that’s draped over the back of the sofa. Okay.Somethings feel like home.
I brush at my nose, the dusty air finally getting to me, then sneeze three times in quick succession. A sense of déjà vu washes over me. My grandmother never sneezed just once. It was always three times. A feeling steals over me, like a whispered exhale, a feather touch, and I sense my grandmother near. The sensation is gone as quickly as it came. So quickly, I might have imagined it.
Either way, I feel a renewed sense of purpose. I might not have much motivation to make my mother happy. But I can do this for my grandmother.
A knock sounds on the front door before Brody’s deep voice calls out. “Kate? Are you home?”
“In here,” I call. I wipe away the tears pooling in my eyes—when did I become a person who cries without warning?—and stand up, glancing down at my clothes to make sure I’m presentable.
Brody appears in the bedroom doorway with a bag of something that smells so delicious, my stomach immediately rumbles loud enough for him to hear it all the way across the room.
He grins. “Hungry, Kate?”
“Always.” I inhale deeply, picking up notes of . . . cilantro? Cheese? “Especially for . . . tacos?”
He holds up the bag. “It’s your lucky day.”
“Oh, bless you,” I say, stepping around the bed.
His gaze tracks around the room. “You’ve been busy.”
“I feel like I’ve barely made a dent. You wouldn’t believe some of the stuff I’ve found.”
He tilts his head toward the kitchen. “Come eat and tell me about it.”
