Page 76 of Breakaway Hearts

Intoxicating steam wafts off the lasagna as Reese carries the glass dish into the dining room. I can see the cheese melting on the inside, mingling with the meat sauce, and my stomach lets out a low growl.

“Hungry, Firefly?” Reese asks with a wink.

“Starving,” I say without a hint of flirtation, and he laughs.

My mom comes in a second later, holding three rocks glasses and a bottle that is decidedly not wine. I raise an eyebrow at the whiskey, and my mom offers a slightly apologetic grin.

“I know it’s not Blanton’s,” she tells me, “but I bought it a while ago because it reminded me of your dad. I thought we could give it a try tonight.”

My mom, as embarrassing as she can be sometimes, is also the sweetest, most sentimental person I know. Buying a bottle of whiskey that she most likely won’t even like just because it makes her think of my dad is heartwarming, romantic, and the mostMomthing she could do. I reach over and pour myself a glass while Reese dishes out the lasagna.

I pour everyone else some as well, although I know neither of them are big whiskey drinkers. I take a sip, and it’s surprisingly good, with a nice sweet flavor and a smoky feel. Not as good as Blanton’s, obviously, but still a decent whiskey.

“Reese bought a bottle of Blanton’s when I moved in,” I tell my mother. “Supposedly for the both of us, but he’s more of a beer guy. So it’s mostly for me.”

Reese grins and takes a sip of his whiskey, swirling it in the glass a little.

“Don’t go spoiling her too much now, Reese. And you, little lady.” My mom makes a face as she sits. “Don’t drink that Blanton’s too quickly. It’s expensive.”

I shrug as I dole out salad onto everyone’s plates. “I’ve only had about half. Don’t worry.”

“Half?” my mom just about yells.

Reese and I share a look as my mom launches into a mini-tirade on moderation and not taking advantage of my boyfriend’s wealth, and I almost feel like we’re eighteen-year-olds again, getting lectured by an adult. Eventually my mom begins eating as well, and we fall into a comfortable silence. The cheese melts in my mouth, and the lasagna is cooked perfectly al dente. I didn’t realize how much I’d missed my mom’s cooking until this moment. Ithasbeen a while since I’ve been over here, much longer between visits than usual.

“Good food or bad company,” I say, mimicking my dad’s signature phrase whenever we didn’t speak for a while at mealtime.

“Definitely the former.” Reese pats his stomach.

“Maybe both,” my mom jokes.

We polish off the lasagna and the salad quickly, and we all simultaneously sit back in our seats.

Reese lets out a satisfied sigh. “That was delicious, Lisa. Best lasagna I’ve ever had.”

“Don’t go flattering me.” Her face lights up bright red. It’s painfully obvious where I get my flush from, just looking at her. “I’m going to start cleaning up now before we dig into dessert. I need a moment to digest.”

“No, you rest,” Reese insists, standing. “You cooked dinner for us. I’ll clean up in the kitchen.”

“I can help, too,” I say, rising along with him.

“Oh, Callie!” My mom lifts a finger. “There are some things upstairs that I want you to grab. Sorry, I meant to tell you when you came in, but I totally forgot! I was too excited to see the both of you.”

“Really? What is it?”

“School supplies! Gladys—you know Gladys from down the block? She has a grandson she didn’t realize was too old now for construction paper and markers and all that good stuff, so she gave it to me to pass on to you.”

“That’s so sweet. I was just thinking I needed to pick up more of that for my classroom, but I was putting off buying it. You’ll have to thank Gladys for me. Where is it upstairs?”

“Dad’s old office,” she tells me. She begins clearing the table, walking back and forth between the dining room and the kitchen. Reese follows and begins to load the dishwasher. “On his desk. You can’t miss it.”

I thank my mom one more time and rush upstairs to grab the supplies so I can help out in the kitchen before the two of them finish the job.

My dad’s old office sits at the far end of the hall, and I take slow, padding steps toward it. When was the last time I was in there? It’s probably been a few years now, but I’m sure my mom keeps it in pristine condition. I put my hand on the knob, take a deep breath, and push the door open.

Sure enough, the office is spotless. The blinds are open, and the dying light of day falls against the papers on the desk that my dad was reading before he passed away. There’s a small easel in the corner, where he let me paint while he worked. One of the walls is covered in my framed artwork, starting from my scribbles as a toddler to the final piece I gifted him, a watercolor lily that I still think is my best work to date.

My heart aches, and a wistful smile pulls at my lips. Tears sting the edges of my eyes, and I wipe at them before going over to my dad’s desk. There’s a small photo of the three of us in the corner, and I pick it up to see my dad’s face, still so young. I didn’t realize how young he was back then. You always think your parents are ancient when you’re little, but he wasn’t even fifty yet when he died.

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