instead. I shut the door and walk toward the house, my boots crunching in the snow. The car peels out of the driveway, the smoke from the exhaust leaving little puffs in the cold air. I can hear Wicked come back on from all the way down the street.
My mom must have spotted me coming up the driveway, because she bursts through the front door and onto the porch. Like usual, her white-blond hair is wild around her head, curling out like wisps of smoke. When I was little, I used to think my mom was a beautiful witch in a fairy story, with her long colorful skirts and the gemstone rings stacked on her fingers. But then I realized she’s just from Vermont.
Right now she’s wrapped in a purple pashmina to keep out the cold, and it whips behind her in the wind like a flag. I shrink back slightly when I see her, preparing for a lecture, angry words to match the angry whip of the pashmina.
“Honey, it’s freezing! Where is your coat?”
The soft tone of her voice catches me off guard.
“I’m fine.”
She grabs ahold of me as I get up the steps and ushers me inside. The house smells like garlic now instead of the stale beer stink from last night, and there’s classical music playing—I recognize Debussy from when I used to take piano lessons.
There are bags of ski gear dumped in the front hallway, boots dripping melted snow onto the tile floor. Andrew’s parents always close out the ski season in Canada for their anniversary weekend, and usually Andrew stays with my family while they’re away, but this year they said they trusted him on his own. I’m struck suddenly with the fear that if they’re talking to us before they’ve fully unpacked, this must be serious.
When we get into the living room, Andrew’s parents are sitting on the couch by the window, my dad on the love seat next to them. Andrew is perched on the coffee table, half off it like he’s prepared to flee. They’re all holding steaming mugs in their hands.
“Keely, sweetie, would you like some yerba maté?” Andrew’s mom asks, getting up from the couch and heading into the kitchen, long skirts billowing behind her. There’s a reason our moms bonded so quickly when they met—they’re the same kind of hippie artist weirdos. “Robert picked some up from the health food store on our way home.” She rummages through the cabinets and pulls out another mug. I smile when I see it’s one Hannah made—she sometimes sells mugs at our local craft fair.
“Your mom brought us over some homemade bruschetta,” she continues. Our parents are all vegans, so they’re always cooking up new recipes. Andrew’s mom places a few tomato-and-onion-covered toasts onto a little plate for me. “You have to try some.”
I’m trying to get a grasp on the situation, but I can’t. Andrew made it seem like we were in trouble when he texted, but my mom’s concern, the smell of the garlic, and the tinkling piano music makes this feel like some friendly lunch instead. But maybe this is the punishment—being forced to drink yerba maté and hang out when we’d rather be literally anywhere else.
I look to Andrew for help, but he seems just as confused.
“So we talked about what we wanted to say to you,” my mom starts, “how we wanted to . . . well, how we wanted to bring this up—if we even wanted to bring it up at all.” My dad puts his hand on her shoulder to show they’re a Parental Unit and he agrees with her no matter what.
“We know these things happen,” he says, running a hand through his beard. My dad has had the same beard my whole life, and sometimes I think it’s his proudest accomplishment.
“A part of me has been preparing for it,” Andrew’s mom says. “I mean, really, we’ve always known this might happen, even hoped for it a little bit. We’ve certainly joked about it a lot.”
“You guys are all grown up now,” my mom says. “It’s hard for us. You were our babies. But this is normal, of course. And you were being safe.”