Page 75 of Cherry Picking
Other than some wind and dark clouds, things aren’t looking too bad, so while Parker works on gathering all of his art supplies, I head inside to where Mom is standing at the stove stirring a pot of what I think is cabbage and hamburger meat. She’s alternating between keeping the pot from boiling over and typing furiously into her computer on the counter.
“Maybe you should let Parker illustrate one of your books. Have you seen him, Mom?”
“Ha!” She looks over at me and waves her hand away. “Maybe when he’s eighteen. Until then, my pen names stay far away from him.”
Her dark hair is in a messy bun and has that stringy quality it gets when she goes more than twenty-four hours without washing it, and she’s wearing her glasses even though that usually only happens when we leave the house. She can’t see distance in the slightest, but usually anything up close is fine.
“Hey. If you need to get work done, I can take over dinner.”
The clacking of the keys stops, and she tilts her head. “No, it’s alright. I’m at a stopping point. Just needed to get these two idiots’ yammering out of my head.”
Mom writes romance novels of the sports variety, something she fell back on during her infertility struggles. It kept her afloat and makes her happy, so even if Dad and I snicker when she asks us sports related questions that have nothing to do with interest and everything to do with what she’s putting in her novels, we support her.
That’s what family does.
“What you could do, though,” she says, pushing back some of her stray hair. “Tell your father to come in and wash up some bowls so we have something to eat out of instead of chatting away with whichever player’s parent he’s been outside with for the last twenty minutes.”
I nearly choke on my laughter as I throw my hands up. “You sure you don’t want me to wash them for you?”
Mom has that definitive ‘looks can kill’ stare down pat. “He’s the one who uses two bowls to make ramen in the microwave instead of just pulling down a pot. Some soapy water won’t kill him.”
“Message received and ready to be delivered.”
Mom and Dad have my favorite kind of relationship: supportive but firm in their own needs. Dad can be pushy, and Mom can be stubborn, but they work, and that’s what I want.
To click and work with someone even through our differences.
Like Griff.
I planned on talking the situation out with my parents, but two weeks in and I haven’t gotten the nerve to bring it up. To say clearly that I’m attracted to men, and there’s one man in particular I want to spend my life with but can’t stop the sinking feeling in my gut when I picture it.
The screen door creaks when I push it open, and the holler that scrapes my throat dies in the wind as I take in the man standing at the bottom of the porch steps.
Chestnut brown hair and hazel eyes the color of a summer lake with a smile that awakens the slumbering heartache in my chest. Not that it’s ever far.
He looks up and over my dad’s shoulder before I can find any words, and a spark of determination lights up his expression. With a clap on Dad’s shoulders, he bounds up the steps, holding the strap of his duffle bag in place, and aims that superstar grin at me like I didn’t break his heart the last time we spoke.
“Hey,” I croak out. “What are you doing here?”
“You invited me for the holidays, remember?”
“I didn’t think?—”
Griffin has the audacity to wink at me. “It takes more than one scared phone call to shake me, Riley.”
And then he shoulders past me and barks out, “where can I put my bag? Evening, Mrs. Easton.”
I’m left standing there dumbstruck as my Dad raises a questioning brow. “Thought you’d be happy to see your friend. After All, you told us he had a change of plans. Aren’t you glad it worked out?”
Instead of answering, I shake my head and follow Griffin into the house where my boyfriend (maybe not-boyfriend?) is helping Mom set the table.
“That coach of yours sure knows how to instill manners into his players, doesn’t he?” she asks while throwing me a smile.
“It’s called ‘fake it til you make it’, Mom. He’s kissing ass. Had to findsomeway to stay on the team this long.”
Griff catches my eyes and bites back a smile.
It’s nice. Seeing him here like this. In my childhood home. With my family.
