get what I came here for today, I might possibly be stuck here for days. And knowing my mom, that’s precisely what she’ll make happen.
It should be impossible to feel this pissed off and anxious and agitated at a one-year-old’s birthday party with a rainbow of balloons, Kidz Bop playing through the speakers, and a pet pig roaming around, but here I am. The event itself is extravagant beyond words, and Katie, the birthday girl, is clearly spoiled, but not in a way that has you believing she’s going to grow up obnoxious. She’s spoiled with love, and maybe I should add jealousy to the list of emotions I’m currently drowning in.
Mom shoots me a glare and slowly runs an open hand in front of her face, as if silently telling me to fix my face.
I should fix her face. Rearrange it.
I run my fingers through my hair and squeeze. And then I release it quickly. No. I don’t do that anymore. I never did. It was the triggers that made me do it.
With a deep breath, I try to resettle my thoughts. I just need to remind myself of the triggers, make sure I overcome them, and I’ll be fine. I give my mother my most disingenuous smile before turning on my heels and walking away. I may be twenty-two, but I’m not above petty. Leaving the party behind me, I make my way toward the apartment. If I sit on the steps, I’ll be out of view, and then she won’t be able to keep telling me that I’m not behaving in accordance to the standards of the great Virginia Kovács. I wish I could strip her of that name. She doesn’t deserve it, which is why I’m here.
I make it safely to the garage and notice the door open. It’s a mistake to peek inside because the first things I notice are the bikes. Leo’s and mine. And even though my mind is yelling trigger, trigger, trigger, I can’t help but gravitate toward them. “Why are you still here?” I mentally ask the bike, running a finger over the pink handlebars. It still looks new. Besides the dust covering it and the slight fraying of the white basket’s wood, it’s exactly as I remember it.
“That basket was the reason you chose it, remember?” I turn swiftly at the sound of Mr. Preston’s deep rumble and blink back the wetness in my eyes. I was not expecting tears. I’m better than that now. Stronger. My constant tears were a sign of weakness, and they don’t belong here, in my body, in my peace.
I nod once, the air in my throat too shallow to speak.
“When Leo saw the FOUND posters around town, he made sure that we got it back as soon as possible. I think there was a part of him that was hoping you’d return.” Trigger. “Every year I do a massive clear-out, and I try to get rid of them, but he won’t let me,” he says. Trigger. Trigger.
I stare at Mr. Preston, wondering how much he knows. Did Leo tell him why I left, or why he chose never to come back that last summer? Regardless of the answer, it didn’t matter. Mr. Preston’s the reason all of this started. If he hadn’t invited me here that first summer, I would’ve never met his boys, and I could’ve— “Why did you invite me here?” I find myself asking, and I hate the way my words wobble with my speech. It’s a question I’ve found myself asking too many times over the past five years, and I could never come up with an answer definitive enough to stick with. I never thought I’d get the chance to find out, but I’m here, he’s here, and I need to know.
Mr. Preston’s hands are shoved in his pockets as he leans against the garage door frame. It’s a move so similar to his son’s, or vice versa. “When I found out that Virginia had a kid that she couldn’t be with—take care of—because she was working to take care of mine, I didn’t think it fair to her.”
I scoff. “Is that what she told you? That she had to leave me so she could work here?”
His eyes narrow, his lips pulling down in a frown as he nods once. “Is that not what happened?”
I almost laugh. Almost. “Mr. Preston—”
“Tom,” he cuts in.
“Tom,” I say, and the single syllable seems foreign in my mouth. “My mom abandoned me when