Page 25 of That Time We Kissed Under the Mistletoe
Sara cringes. “Tone is pretty hard to read over text, especially with my mom. So that could be less humor and more passive aggressiveness. Either way, I can’t just message her now. I owe her an explanation over FaceTime.”
Even as Sara says this, I flash back to the last conversation I overheard between Mr. and Mrs. Hathaway. That was a decade ago, and a part of me wishes they hadn’t been in the living room with the front window open when I came to pick up Sara that day.
But they were.
“Hold on,” I blurt. “Your parents can’t know you’re here with me.” And now my insides feel like they’re being crushed in a trash compactor.
“Huh?” Sara’s whole face contorts in confusion. “Why doyoucare?”
Wow.
After all this time, I guess Sara still doesn’t know how her mom and dad really felt about me, or how deeply I was already hurting by the time I hurt her. “I don’t care personally,” I say, adding a nonchalant shrug for extra proof. “But if you tell your mom you’re taking care of me because of the concussion, you’ll have to explain the whole oven debacle. And then your parents?—”
“No, you’re right.” She throws a hand up to cut me off. “I don’t need to relive that particular lapse in competence. And I definitely don’t want my parents questioning my ability to handle things here.” She pauses for a beat, chewing at her lip. “I guess I could just go with the partial truth like you did. I’ll say I forgot to text her because everything here looks so great.” Sara glances at the oven. “I’ll just leave out the part where I had to scrape a full layer of smoke out of the kitchen to get it that way.”
“On that note,” I say, “I should probably go check my messages. I’ve put the pain off long enough. Time to face the I’m-not-going-on-the-cruise-with-you music.”
“Oof.” Sara grimaces. “Good luck with that.”
“Thanks.” I offer her a crisp salute. “And good luck back to you.”
Her mouth takes on an angle like a ski slope. “Is it weird that I kind of feel like we’re in this thing together now?”
“What thing?”
“The not-quite-telling-the-whole-truth-but-not-lying-either thing.”
“I wouldn’t call it weird,” I say. “I’d call this self-preservation.”
As I head off to the guest room, leaving Sara in the kitchen to FaceTime her mother, my guts begin to twist. Sure, I told Sara not to mention my name so she wouldn’t have to admit her blunder with the oven. But if I’m being completely honest, I don’t want her mom to find out I’m here and launch into a series of questions about what a nobody like me is doing with himself these days.
I can imagine Sara’s answer, and Mrs. Hathaway being … unsatisfied.
So you’re saying he’s still lifeguarding and teaching swim lessons after all these years?
That’s hardly the Hathaway way.
I’d be willing to bet Sara’s parents haven’t reversed their negative opinions on my small-town gig life. Who cares if I’m happy in my work? That I’ve found a career I love? No matter what I accomplish in the classroom, my professional trajectory will never score me a penthouse like theirs.
Ten years ago, I had a hard enough time feeling worthy of Sara even before I discovered how the Hathaways truly felt. One whiff of fresh contempt could send me right down the I’m-not-worthy spiral they bought me season tickets to back then. So, yeah. No thank you.
In fact, that’s a big fatnope thanks.
Plucking my phone from the charger, I drop onto the bed and settle back against the headboard to wait for my phone to power up. The apple pops onto the black screen first, then I’mprompted to enter my passcode. When my home screen opens, the first thing I see is my green messages app with red notifications in double digits.
All righty then. I’m about to see what chaos I’ve missed.
On the cousins text thread, I’ve received sympathetic and/or humorous messages from almost everyone. They’ve offered to order extra drinks for me (Brady), sing an extra karaoke song for me (Lettie), share extra TikTok videos with me (Olivia), meet extra women for me (Ford), eat extra dessert for me (Tess), win an extra round of trivia for me (Darby), take extra notes on the tour of the USSArizonafor me (Kasey) and book another cruise for everyone for next year (Mac).
Of course, the Original Fuller House thread has a flurry of confused texts from all three of my family members.
Then there are the voicemails. I swallow hard before I listen. And my throat only gets more clogged as I go.
From Smella: “Freebie, I must’ve fallen asleep on the red-eye, and now I’m having a nightmare you’re not in the window seat next to me. When I wake up in California, I know you’ll be there wearing your signature grin, and we’ll go stuff our faces at the ship’s all-you-can-eat buffet together. This is the only outcome I will accept under the circumstances, or else I might cry a little. And I know you don’t want me to cry.”
From Dad: “Son, your mother and I are very sorry to hear about your accident. We both noticed you didn’t share any details about what happened, and the fact that you’re staying somewhere we wouldn’t be able to find you is … well, that’s strange. But it sounds like you’re following medical advice, and you’ve got a good head on your shoulders, so I told your mother you’ll be all right. Since you’re still in town, maybe you could check that the pipes aren’t freezing over at our place. I’ve never left home this time of year. Feels kinda strange to be away, not gonna lie.”
From Mom: “Bradford Fuller, you do NOT get to leave a cryptic text message about being mysteriously injured, then tell us to have the best time ever on this cruise. I expect a phone call, an email, or follow-up text immediately. In fact, I’d like all of the above. And I don’t give a fig about bad Wi-Fi. If NASA can send astronauts to the moon, this cruise line can get a message to your mother. Do NOT make me charter a jet or hire a private investigator to track you down before Christmas.”
