Page 4 of The Last Road Trip

“I’m allergic to fish, Buck.”

“Since when?”

“Since always.” My voice stays level, though something hot and tight is building in my chest. “Since we got married. Since before the twins were born. Since the time I ate a tuna sandwich at that picnic for our third date and spent the night in the emergency room.”

“I forgot. It’s not a big deal.”

“You can’t be serious. We’ve been married for 25 years. I know all of your allergies and you can’t remember the one that puts me in the hospital?”

He rolls his eyes. “Come on, Harriet. Calm down. It’s not my fault you fell asleep in the car. I can’t be expected to read your mind or remember every little detail about your preferences.”

“It’s not merely a preference,” I say, defending myself. “I get hives and my tongue and lips swell. It physically hurts me.”

Apparently, we weren’t as quiet as I thought, because Christine appears in the doorway.

“We can make something else,” she says, her voice careful and kind. “I’ve got mac and cheese ingredients for at least a few servings. It wouldn’t take long.”

“Thank you,” I say, and I mean it. “That would be really nice.”

That’s all I wanted. Some sort of accommodation so I can eat. Christine slips out, giving us privacy.

“See?” Buck says, as though she’s just proven his point. “Problem solved. No need for the dramatics.”

Before I can respond, Maren appears in the hallway, earbuds dangling around her neck. “What’s going on?” she asks, looking between us.

“Nothing,” I say automatically. “Everything’s fine.”

She rolls her eyes in the same expression Buck just made. “Come on, tell us. You two are doing that thing where you whisper-fight and then pretend everything’s normal at dinner.”

“We’re having fish,” I say, the words coming out flatter than I intended. “Your aunt’s making mac and cheese too.”

Maren’s brows draw together. “Okay, and that’s bad because why?”

Before I can explain, Buck cuts in. “Yeah, so stop blaming me. You still have food you can eat.”

Maren looks at me, confusion written across her face. “You’re upset with Dad over this? But there’s still mac and cheese. And I think salad, too.”

I look at my daughter, who has my eyes and Buck’s dismissive shrug, and realize this is what they’ve learned from him. This is what I’ve allowed by keeping quiet and keeping the peace above all else.

Chapter 3

Harriet

Needing time to process my feelings, I retreat back to the kitchen. Now, I’m standing at the stove in Christine’s kitchen, stirring the mac and cheese with a wooden spoon. Christine works beside me at the counter, hands busy with the salmon fillets. The kitchen smells of butter and the briny scent of a fish dinner I won’t be eating.

“How long have you been cooking dishes from scratch?” I ask, watching her deftly guide a fresh fillet into the hot pan. The loud, buttery sizzle fills the small kitchen, making my own standard routine of frozen entrees and boxed dinners feel incredibly cheap.

“About fifteen years,” Christine says, swirling the pan to coat the salmon in lemon butter. “The first thing Gary ever asked me to make when we were dating was a homemade apple pie. I fell in love with the craft of the pastry crust first, and it just bloomed from there. Pretty soon, I was skipping the supermarket altogether for the local farmer’s markets.”

“It smells incredible,” I say, though a sudden, sharp ache tightens behind my ribs. Gary had courted Christine by asking her to create something beautiful for him. Buck’s third date with me was a cheap tuna sandwich that sent me to the emergency room, an allergy he couldn’t even bother to remember twenty-five years later.

She lifts the pan to swirl the butter. “Thank you for making the mac and cheese. I feel bad about the mix-up.”

I shake my head. “Not your fault.” And it isn’t. The fault lies with the man sitting twenty feet away in the living room.

The kitchen door swings open, and Coris appears. “Need help?” she asks.

“We’re good,” Christine says. “Maybe grab some water glasses?”