Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 84000 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 420(@200wpm)___ 336(@250wpm)___ 280(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 84000 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 420(@200wpm)___ 336(@250wpm)___ 280(@300wpm)
TWO
Sophia
The farther I am from New York City, the more anxious I feel. It’s not that I hate going back home—of course I don’t. I love my family. I had a picture-perfect childhood in Cincinnati, Ohio. My two older brothers still adore me, my mom still bakes cookies on Saturdays and works at the library three days a week, and my dad was and is—and has always been—my best friend. He’s always worked so hard to provide for us, and even now that his kids are grown, he still spends a lot of time on the road for work. When he was home, though, I had the world’s best dad.
It’s just… I love New York. I love that everything’s always changing and there’s a different story around every corner. In Cincinnati, no matter how much time passes between my visits, everything’s exactly the same as it always was.
I don’t know what has me feeling uneasy about being back this time, but as I round the corner onto Silver Streak Drive, my pulse quickens. I take a deep breath trying to head off what feels like a panic attack—which doesn’t make any sense at all. Home is a place I love. I shake my head and put my car into park outside the house I grew up in. Maybe it’s delayed altitude sickness or something. Once my bag is unpacked and Oliver has told me I’m looking old and I’ve threatened to knee him in the balls, things will be just fine. We’ll quickly revert to our teenage selves and everything will be back to normal within the hour.
Mom’s is the only car in the drive. Dad must be on the road. I wonder if he’ll struggle to stay in one place for long when he retires.
As I slam my rental car door shut, Mom appears on the stoop, beaming. She’s wearing a blue frilled apron I made her for Christmas when I was eleven. How that thing hasn’t disintegrated, I don’t know. Underneath, she wears jeans and the pink sweater with red hearts I bought her last Christmas.
I grab my bag from the back seat and head over to her.
“Hello, sweetheart.” She scoops up my face and looks at me for a beat, her eyes gleaming or glassy, I can’t tell, then pulls me in for a hug.
“Hi, Mom.”
Her hug goes on a little longer than usual, and I drop my weekender to wrap my arms around her. I come back three or four times a year for birthdays and holidays, but I’m here now because Mom asked me to come back. She said she hadn’t seen me for the longest time. I didn’t think anything about it at the time, but now, standing here in a longer-than-usual hug, it hits me that I’m here for a specific reason I don’t know about. The temporary reprieve from that anxious feeling in my gut ends abruptly.
“Good to have you here,” she says.
“Is everything okay?” I ask.
“Of course, sweetie. Your brothers are inside and I’m just—” The oven timer interrupts her. She laughs. “I’m about to take some cookies out of the oven.”
Noah appears in the doorway and takes my bag, just as I bend to pick it up. “I’ll take it upstairs,” he says, kissing me on the cheek.
I shrug, a little unnerved that he’s acting so nice. “Sure. Thanks.”
I glance at Mom. She just raises her eyebrows. “You’re all growing up. There was a time when if you’d left him alone with that bag, it would be full of slime when you saw it again.”
“I still wouldn’t put it past him to have a bucket of slime waiting upstairs.”
She laughs and leads me into the kitchen. It’s just the same as it was when I was last here for Noah’s birthday back in August. Pretty green-checkered curtains at the window, yellow walls, and cabinets that look slightly more chipped every time I visit. There’s even the same vase of gerberas on the counter. I distinctly remember thinking they were new on my last visit, and how nice it was that Dad bought Mom flowers. I reach out for the petals and I realize they’re not real. Wow, I really thought they were fresh.
“Where’s Dad?” I ask.
Mom pulls out a tray of cookies and slides them onto the counter. “These smell absolutely delicious. I’ve added coconut.”
Oliver appears and goes to the refrigerator, where he pulls out a beer. “You want one?” He takes off the cap and offers it to me.
“Sure, thanks.” I take the bottle.
“I’ll have one too,” Mom says.
Oliver and I exchange a look. Mom never drinks, apart from a glass of champagne at New Years and a glass of wine on her birthday and Christmas.
“You want a beer?” Oliver says as I hand Mom my drink. She wipes her hands down her apron, takes the bottle, and has a swig.