Page 85 of The Troll’s Summer Flame

Andrea hesitates, then bends, and Mother’s arm shoots up with surprising speed and force, thick gray fingers closing down around her throat.

I don’t even think about what happens next. My arm is in motion before Hugo even takes a step. The axe swings down, and Mother’s arm falls off at the elbow. Andrea screams, shakes the lifeless limb off with my help, fighting the fingers that still remember they’re supposed to choke. I lift her into my arms as my mother lies in gory grass, cursing my name, my choices, my father, and every non-troll she has ever met.

Andrea’s voice is shaking, barely audible. “Gordon, I’m...”

“Andrea, go get the cat. Hugo, go with Andrea. Take Blanche inside. Andrea, you should get cleaned up. Get Blanche cleaned up.”

“I’m staying with you!” Andrea rasps, rubbing her throat and shuddering. “I love you. This is... This is hard, and I’m staying. Whatever happens, you shouldn’t be alone. People who love you stay for the hard parts.”

I love her more than anything right then.

Hugo stays. Blanche... Blanche slinks away to the firetruck and gets the cat, who is yowling in his carrier. “I’ll take this inside,” she whispers, and goes.

Mother doesn’t apologize. Or plead. She curses and rails and claws. Lack of blood makes her ranting end sooner rather than later. The sun rises, and she doesn’t just turn into a clean, neat “statue” of an encapsulated troll, forever imprisoned in stone for her sins. The sun sends ripples of stone across her skin, and without even breathing on her, the rocky surface erodes. Crumbles. Refines to dust, then powder, and gentle morning breezes carry the sifting bits of her remains away.

“Oh. She was evil, evil,” Hugo breathes, rubbing the hollow in his side where she attacked him.

“Oh, baby. Oh, Hugo.” Andrea whispers. She sobs into my chest, and Hugo takes that to mean that I am the designated hanky. He comes and sobs on my shoulder.

I don’t cry at all. I let out a deep, relieved sigh. My family is safe. And what is done is done. What comes next? Something better than the past. “We should go. I have to return the firetruck.”

“I’ll go with you. Hugo—watch Blanche and the cat,” Andrea instructs.

That was smart. She’s a smart teacher, a clever woman altogether. Hugo, given this gravely honorable task, snaps out the sobbing, wipes his eyes, and asks, “May I pet him? Will he want to be fed?”

“Let me give you a five-minute course on cat care,” Andrea says after a moment of thought. “I’ll be right there, babe,” she says to me, squeezing my hand.

“I’ll be waiting.”

Chapter Twenty: Summer Love

“Don’t be nervous.”

“Why would I be nervous? I love Mama Flores,” Hugo beams and bounces in his sneakers.

“I was talking to your brother, the boyfriend who is about to get the third-degree,” I chuckle and pat Gordon’s hair into place. The fateful weekend has arrived. My parents are in town, texting blow-by-blow driving drama as they try to find Gordon’s house.

My mother is texting Hugo as much as she’s texting me. She met him on a video call last week, and he has been her adopted baby boy ever since. Dad, on the other hand, is now texting Gordon daily, mainly to send him mechanic bloopers and sports failures. Gordon is mystified as to why my father thinks people getting hit with wrenches and splatting into their teammates is funny, but he responds with a carefully curated bunch of GIFs, and Dad approves.

My parents arrive, hug me, and then act like I’m not there. The mission is clear. Inspect the boyfriend and potential brother-in-law. Fatten them up. Ask them questions.

Gordon, who was so nervous he paced most of the night, is now in a state of almost catatonic calm. He’s decided to cut to the chase of my parents’ grilling.

“Flowers, Mrs. Flores.” He hands my mother a bouquet of roses. “Mr. Flores? This is your favorite brand of bourbon. Here is my savings account statement, my checking account statement, my credit score, the mortgage... Oh, and yes, I have the truck title. The roof was replaced six years ago and has a twenty-year warranty. Would you like to inspect the cat tree I have for Chopin?”

I elbow him, and Gordon’s face creaks into a smile like a rusty gate. “I am pleased to meet you,” he says, and almost bows.

“Holy cow,” I whisper.

Hugo’s mouth drops open. “Gordon must really want to marry you, Andrea. He’s trying to impress Mama and Papa Flores.”

“Inside thought, Hugo,” I mouth, and cover my eyes for a few seconds to see if I can will the rapidly forming stress headache away.

“This is totally unnecessary,” Dad says, taking the bottle Gordon handed him. “But completely amazing.”

“Is it a thirty-year mortgage?” Mom asks.

“Moooom,” I moan.