Page 27 of The Fun Part
Mom loves to make Dad happy and is miserable if he’s upset with her, which he rarely is. Have to say, the reverse is also true. #couplegoals
She flips her strawberry-blonde hair over her shoulder and opens the door. “Dad will have no reason to be unhappy with me. Try to mingle with some other guys, Mackenzie. Cal’s a dead end in the romance department.”
I stand there for a moment. Maybe she’s right about Cal, and she’s been looking out for me all along. I smooth my hair back and try to think this through. Is it me? Maybe I’m being paranoid because of her past matchmaking efforts on my behalf. Not to mention the Mom matchmaking stories from my aunts, uncles, and her friends. Legendary. Subtle.Persistent. Aunt Lauren even signed up for her Make Love BloomTMplan, which Mom trademarked and everything. The plan fell flat on its face,but Aunt Lauren ended up with the love of her lifedespite it. Mom still takes credit, saying she helped Aunt Lauren see what was out there and to appreciate what was right in front of her. Who can argue with that kind of logic?
I feel a little silly now. I can’t let the past warp my view of reality.
I make a right onto my parents’ street. It’s Saturday, a week after my talk with Mom, and I offered to help her out with a trip to an estate sale. I haven’t run into Cal all week, so that’s the end of that.
Okay, hard truth—I’ve spent way too much time thinking about the wisdom of getting involved with a guy who casually leaves a year-long relationship. As if getting involved with Cal is a real problem I have. He’s shown no signs of wanting to be further involved with me. Not even a text.
I miss him. I wish that weren’t true.
Maybe Cal realized late that he and Rayna weren’t right for each other. Or does he really have a problem with commitment? Would he leave me if we got serious? I know there’s no way of knowing a relationship is a sure thing, but I’d like some assurances if I was going to venture in that direction. Some way of knowing that there’s something special between us. A sign. That sounds ridiculously superstitious and borderline romantic.
Obviously great sex has made me delusional. The man told me he’s bad at relationships. I need to believe him.
And stop thinking about him.
And fantasizing about him.
Life goes on, right? One foot in front of the other. Speaking of which, Mom sprained her ankle attempting pickleball with herfriends. I feel bad for her, but at the same time it’s a well-known fact that dodging the ball only works in dodgeball.
Parking in my parents’ driveway, I brace myself for a long day. I’m going to drive Mom to an estate sale in the country, where she plans to bid on some antiques for Ludbury House. She’s always on the lookout for antique furniture and wedding gear like candlesticks, vases, and tablecloths for her wedding planning office and venue.
I ring the bell and wait. I’ve got a key, but you never know when a horny parent will decide to take advantage of an empty nest and go for a living room romp. Seriously don’t want to see that. Again.
Mom answers the door on crutches, wearing a purple dress, a loafer, and an ankle boot. She still looks radiant. She shifts back to let me in. “Thank you so much for coming! I appreciate you helping me out on your day off.”
“Of course. What were you thinking with a ball sport?”
“Aunt Mad convinced me pickleball was easy. She said it was like Ping-Pong.” She gives me acan you believe itlook.
“Not so much.”
“No.”
“Shouldn’t you be off your feet? Where’s Dad?”
“I had my ankle elevated all morning. I’ve been up since five. And Dad’s making pancakes. Want some?”
“I’m good. Already ate.”
Dad appears wearing an apron and holding a spatula. “I made banana chocolate-chip.”
My favorite. My mouth waters. “With crushed walnuts on top and homemade whipped cream?”
Dad smirks. “Is there any other way?”
Calories be damned!“Okay, one pancake.”
“Great!” Mom says. “Take your time. I don’t need to be first for browsing the antiques. I’ve catalogued what I want from the website. The auction’s not until twelve.”
I step into the kitchen, where a place is already set for me. Dad serves me up a fluffy pancake, sprinkles walnuts on top, ladles on a generous dollop of whipped cream, and indicates the maple syrup nearby.
The first bite is heaven. Truth is, nothing beats Dad’s cooking. He’s been taking classes for years and loves experimenting in the kitchen. We’re so spoiled; even restaurant cooking can’t compare. Other than Dad’s restaurant, of course.
“So good,” I say. This almost makes up for spending my Saturday shopping for antiques. I much prefer a modern style in home decor.
