Tumble (Dogwood Lane, #1)(10)
For reasons both good and bad, Neely changed who I am in every capacity. I don’t think about her every day anymore. But when I see a ditch full of tiger lilies on a country road in the summer or find myself arguing to some unknowing soul that cheerleading is a sport, I think of her. Then let it go. It’s all I can do. I had to let her go for her own good. I had to let her memory go for mine.
I start the engine, and as the makeshift ice packet falls to the floor, I slam my truck in reverse and back out of the driveway.
CHAPTER FOUR
NEELY
She goes into this half-hour-long dissertation about how adorable her granddaughter looks in her flamingo outfit,” Mom says, relaying a part of her day. “I don’t understand why people do that. It’s not like I’m going to agree her family is the prettiest bunch of girls on the planet when I happened to birth the actual one myself.” She looks over her shoulder and smiles. “Maybe next time I’ll whip out pictures of you.”
“Um, I’m not in a onesie anymore.” I laugh. “I don’t think it’s a direct comparison.”
“I bet I have some of those around here somewhere . . .”
“Oh, I bet you do. About fifty million.”
She chuckles, going back to the chicken pasta dish she’s stirring on the stove. The kitchen is flooded with the warmth of a home-cooked meal. My mouth waters, ready to eat more than my share to cap off a long-but-not-altogether-unbearable day. I might go as far as to say today was halfway enjoyable.
After the Dogwood Café incident with Dane, I slid into the bank to see Mom and ended up spending an hour chatting with her and her coworkers. They reminded me how I used to call Mom at work at three thirty when I got home from school and proceeded to keep calling to ask a million questions every few minutes until she got off an hour later. Apparently, I was quite the handful as a child. The term they used was “distracting.” They don’t know what distracting is.
Distracting is the way a certain pair of green eyes refuse to leave your brain even after the air clears of his cologne.
“Neely.”
“What?” I ask, jumping at the intrusion.
“What?” Mom’s brow furrows.
“What what?”
“Your entire demeanor just changed.”
I hop off the counter and sigh. It’s so much easier keeping things from her when she’s in Tennessee and I’m in New York. “Just thinking. That’s all.”
She places the spatula on the spoon rest we picked up in Philadelphia last year on a quick mother-daughter getaway. Mini vacations are how we see each other unless she comes to see me in New York. I tell myself she needs to get away from here, that it does her good.
Facing me, the confused look melts into one of concern. “Do you want to talk about it yet?”
“Talk about what?”
“Why you’re here. I don’t want to pressure you, honey, but I would like to be there for you because I know good and well something spurred this.”
Grabbing my glass, I head to the refrigerator and add some water. “I can’t just miss my mom?”
“I hope you do,” she says. “But you haven’t just hopped on a plane and come home. Ever.”
I lug in a deep breath. “Maybe I was wrong for not coming home before now. I just . . .”
“I know it’s hard to face things here. We all have things we don’t talk about in life. It took years before I even wanted to hear your father’s name.”
“I still don’t want to hear that.”
“Me either.”
I take in my mother in her kitchen, wearing her apron with a relaxed air about her I never see in New York or while on vacation in a random city. A person looks like that only in their home. As I watch her move easily around the room, I realize I’m more relaxed here than I recall being in a long time.
“If it helps,” I say, “I did miss home. Even if don’t say it a lot.”
“It does help to hear that. I’m thrilled to have you in my kitchen and eating my food, even if I don’t know what’s on your mind.”
“Yeah . . .” I blow out a breath. Leaning against the counter, I watch her as I sip the drink.
Once I open up to my mom, it’s all over. I keep everything in a neat little box mentally when talking to Grace. I’m “New York” Neely with her—composed, professional, aggressive. But with Mom, I’m basically a fourteen-year-old girl standing in front of the woman who can read me like an open book. My stomach twists into a tight knot as I prepare to recount everything that happened.
“It’s not fair for me to come back here and not even tell you why.” I place my cup on the counter. “Thanks for giving me a little while to deal with it on my own.”
“This house is your home whether you actually live here or not. You don’t need a reason to be here, and you don’t owe me an explanation. I just want you to know that whatever it is, I’m on your side.”
“I know. I appreciate that.”
She bites her lip as if to keep herself from saying more.
My heart thumps wildly in my chest. Her support was never a question. She’d stand up for me even if I were wrong. What I don’t want to happen is for her to worry I’m going to starve to death or cast me a look of pity because of the decision I made.