see him. “No, I know. I just…” I shrug, then shove my hands in my pockets. “Sorry to disturb you. I’ll go.”
I start down the steps, but she places her hand on my forearm lightly, and when I look at her, she’s smiling again. But it’s sad. So sad. “Sometimes, when we remember people, we just like to be around them. Is this… is this your way of doing that?” She’s scanning my face, as if she sees something there she recognizes but can’t pinpoint. I do the same with her; only I know what I see. She dresses like my mom, talks like her, too. Or at least the parts of her I remember. She’s probably close to the same age as my mom when she passed.
I offer another shrug because it seems like the only thing I can do. “I guess so, yeah.”
She nods at that. “Why don’t you come in?”
“It’s okay. I don’t want to put you out.”
She lets out a small giggle as she makes her way up the steps. “Any friend of John’s is a friend of mine.” I don’t even realize that I’ve followed her up the steps until she turns to me with her hand on the doorknob. “I’m Tammy, by the way.”
The name jolts a memory, and it takes me a moment to figure it out. “Your Holden’s mom?”
Her eyes widen, just a tad. Then she checks herself, starts opening the door. “I am. So you’re a friend of my son’s, too?”
I shrug. Again. “I’m more a friend of Mia’s.”
She freezes one step inside the house and turns to me. She looks at me, really looks at me, and does that face-scanning thing again. After a few seconds, she steps to the side, letting me into the house.
I step one foot in, and there’s no blast of nostalgia because, unlike the outside, the inside has changed dramatically. All the furniture is new, just like the kitchen. It’s what Laney would call “farmhouse chic.” But we’re in a farmhouse, and all this stuff is manufactured to look rustic, and I don’t know how I feel about it. Not that I have a say.
“I’m sorry, what did you say your name was?” Tammy asks, and I trail my eyes to hers.
“I didn’t.”
Her smile is flat.
“It’s Leo.” I offer her my hand, and she shakes it.
I’m well aware that she won’t stop looking at me, waiting for some form of recognition to hit. Mia’s told me they were close, and maybe she knows more about me than she’s letting on. So I add, “Preston,” and gauge her reaction to see if that hits home.
Nothing.
“How do you know Mia?” she asks, making her way toward the fridge. She motions for me to sit at the island, and so I do.
I say, watching as she pulls out a jug of what I assume is lemonade, “She spent a couple of summers with my family. Her mom was our nanny.”
She slams the jug down on the counter harder than necessary and cocks one eyebrow. “Virginia?”
I nod.
“Hmm,” is all she says. “So, how do you know John?”
“I spent a couple of summers here, just helping fix up the house.”
She nods, her eyes distant, slowly piecing the puzzle together. “And that’s how you met Holden?”
“Yes, ma’am.” I sit taller as she pours two glasses to the brim. “How is he, by the way?”
“He’s good,” she says, and I can hear the pride in her voice. “He’s in Boston. He’ll be graduating this year, and then God knows what he’ll do after.”
I crack a smile.
“What about you, Leo?” she asks, carefully pushing the glass toward me. “What do you do?”
I take a sip, and before I get a chance to answer, the front door opens. I spin around, just in time to see Mia drop a bag full of groceries by her feet. “Dang it!” she whispers, crouching down to collect her shopping. There are cracked eggs splattered out of the bag, oranges rolling everywhere, and flour scattered all over the place.
I hop off the stool to help, bending down in front of her. My heart thumps harshly against my ribcage because I was not expecting to see her.
Or maybe I was.
Maybe she’s the reason I’m here.
“What are you doing here?” she whispers in a hiss, her teeth clamped, jaw tense.
When I chance a peek over at her, her face is red, eyes wet. “Sorry,” I say, getting to my feet. “I didn’t know…” Didn’t know what? That she’d be here?