Page 84 of Just Friends

My grin spreads wider. “Your secret’s safe with me.”

Momisaterriblepatient. For the first week after her sinus surgery, she could do almost nothing on her own, but now that we’ve hit the ten-day mark and she’s finally on the mend, we haven’t been able to keep her in bed. Whenever Dad disappears into his home office to get some work done or retreats into the kitchen to cook her a meal, she sneaks off in the golf cart and drives to the shop.

I’m restocking a shelf when the bell above the door jangles and I turn around to find her trying to slink in, her house slippers padding softly on the thick white-washed floorboards.

The smile I’d pasted on my face in preparation for a customer slides off. “Mom, there’s a bell above the door. How did you think you were going to get past me?”

Mom shrugs, looking like she’s happy to be caught. “I was going to sneak into the back and do inventory.”

“You’re not supposed to be lifting boxes for another two weeks.”

Mom snaps her fingers and slides onto the bench stool behind the counter, watching as I continue to fiddle with the weekly special display. “Well, shoot. I guess I’ll just have to talk to you instead.”

When I glance at her over my shoulder, she looks way too pleased for this to be a coincidence. My shoulders sag, and I spin around, propping my hands on the table behind me.

“Okay, what do you want to know?”

Mom leans her elbows on the table, the sun slanting through the windows catching on the light gold highlights in her hair. “Tell me about Alex,” she says, a knowing smile curving her lips.

I consider lying, but it’s futile. Ava Lane knowseverything. One time in high school, I thought I’d managed to succeed at sneaking out to meet my boyfriend, but then Mom texted me and told me to bring home milk and not to bother trying to climb back in my bedroom window because she didn’t want me to drop it. No matter what tricks Cam and I think we have up our sleeves, Mom always knows more.

My cheeks puff out as I exhale. “He told me he’s in love with me,” I say.

Mom doesn’t look the least bit surprised. She just nods, as if she’s been waiting for this to happen. “Did you say it back?”

A knot forms in my throat, choking off my words, so I shake my head.

Mom’s eyes soften, topaz deepening to sapphire. “Why not?”

The words are gentle, the way she would talk to me when I was sick or hurt, when my boyfriend broke up with me or when I got into a petty fight with my best friend. It feels like an embrace, like pushing my head into her chest and letting her hold me until everything is okay again.

“I don’t know, Mama,” I whisper, my voice cracking.

She’s around the counter in an instant, her arms coming around me. For just a moment, the fear dissolves like an Alka-Seltzer fizzing in a glass of water. That suffocating anxiety that’s been humming in my veins banks to a simmer and everything feels clear.

It’sAlex. My best friend. The person who, arguably, has seen the worst parts of me and still chose to stick around. The person who would show up at my new apartment those first few weeks after I moved to Nashville and force me to shower and take me to lunch so I actually got fresh air and sunshine. The person who always carries a scrunchie on his wrist so I can pull back my hair, who orders an extra drink because he knows I’ll want one even if I say I don’t. The person who went on double dates with me, even when it had to be killing him, because he knew I didn’t trust myself enough to go alone.

Alex, Alex, Alex,my heart beats.

Mom’s hands smooth over my hair, down each bump of my spine, holding me tightly to her. “I know you’re scared,” she whispers into my hair.

I nod against her shoulder, too teary for words.

“The best things in life are always a little scary,” she tells me.

Pulling back, I wipe under my eyes, sniffing loudly. “I thought the best things in life take time?”

A smile touches Mom’s lips, and her smooth, suntanned hand comes up to pat my cheek. The gesture is so familiar it makes me ache. There are so many little things that your parents do when you’re small that you never realize you miss until they repeat it when you’re grown.

“Good thingsdotake time,” she says, smoothing away the last of my tears. “So you take all the time you need, and don’t feel bad about it. There’s nothing worse than being with the right person at the wrong time.”

“What if…” I start to ask and trail off, unsure if I want to voice my fear, if I want this dark part of me to be exposed to the light of day.

Mom dips her head so she can look into my eyes. “What if what?” she asks.

Swallowing, I say, “What if I wait too long and he decides he doesn’t want me?”

“Then he’s not the right one, Hazel Girl.” She nudges under my chin with her knuckle, the smile returning, a flower blooming in spring. “But I don’t think that’s going to happen. I think that boy has been waiting a long time already.”

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