pull into my Dad and Whitney’s driveway. “I love you, and I miss you.”
I hit the ‘end call’ button on my dash and instantly regret asking about the pictures and about the woman who has cast a shadow of doubt and a larger shadow of question into my life as she’s crept into my thoughts and woken me up several times over the past week. A memory festering and then a second one, and now I don’t know if they’re real or I’m just imagining it because I’m exhausted, and that woman’s words—the one who Arlo believes cursed him and said she knew me—plague me like they do Arlo.
“Hey, Olive Oyl,” Dad greets me as I enter the kitchen of their house.
My house.
Our house.
Whatever.
His cell phone is in his hand, and he has his laptop and an iPad in front of him, chewing gum like he always does.
“Studying games?” I ask, kissing his cheek that is bristly and sharp from not having shaved this morning.
“Reviewing potential recruits for next year.” He lowers the wire-rimmed glasses he began wearing last year for reading but has actually needed for at least a decade.
“Hi Olivia,” my step-mom Whitney says. The aroma of barbecue sauce greets me, the tang of vinegar making my mouth water and the sweet scents of brown sugar and molasses making my stomach growl. “I didn’t hear you. Did one of the boys let you in?”
“Yeah, Ross did.”
She smiles, making her way toward me and hugging me.
I’d like to say my step-mom is horrible and awful, so I had an excuse not to like her, but in reality, she’s pretty great, which usually makes me feel guilty for struggling to connect with her.
“I like your jeans,” she says as she pulls away and retreats to the stove to stir the barbecue sauce that she’s making from scratch—undoubtedly for me.
“Thanks,” I tell her. “I got them last year with Rose. Clearance, I think.”
Whitney openly gawks, like the news deserves this reaction. After sitting courtside, my opinion seems vastly skewed as to what is gawk-worthy.
“How are you?” I ask. “I saw the schedule was pretty busy at work today.”
Whitney nods, her expression switching to something that resembles annoyance. My step-mom is many things, but patient isn’t one of them. “I’ve been trying to fit everyone in who had to miss last week. And we found out there are some wiring issues in the attic at Pivotal … mice.” She frowns, turning her attention to my dad. “But Frank found the best exterminator in Seattle, and he promised everything will be taken care of this weekend, and we won’t have any more issues.” She moves to stir a pot of beans on the stove.
Dad waves her exaggerated concerns away. It used to bother me how he was so dismissive of her concerns and fears—sometimes it still does—but I struggle not to do the same because all of her reactions always seem exaggerated. To everything.
“Dinner smells really good. Can I help?”
Whitney smiles. “We’re having braised short ribs, cowboy baked beans, cornbread, and a salad because the cabbage didn’t look very fresh to make coleslaw.”
I want to remind her that she doesn’t have to cook barbecue or Tex-Mex every time I come over, but I’ve told her this at least a dozen times to no avail, so instead, I tell her how delicious that sounds.
“What’s new, Olive Oyl?” Dad asks. “You want something to drink? We’ve got pop in the fridge, juice, I think we’ve got some tea…” he looks at Whitney for confirmation.
“Yes, and I got that cold coffee drink you like,” she adds, grabbing a glass for me.
“Thanks,” I say, accepting it before turning toward the fridge. “You guys want anything?”
“We’re good, honey.” Whitney smiles.
I dig through the fridge until I find the coffee drink and fill my glass. “Want me to make some honey butter?” I ask Whitney.
“Would you mind?” she asks. “The boys love that so much. I don’t know how I forgot to make it.”
I grab a stick of butter from the fridge as I return the coffee. “Sure. I don’t mind.” I walk around the kitchen where I know the places of everything, and it still somehow feels foreign to me though they’ve lived here since they got married sixteen years ago. I collect the honey and a small bowl that I place the unwrapped butter in.
“You getting ready for your trip?” Dad asks. “You leave in a few weeks?”
“Twenty-three days,” I tell him as I place the butter