Page 97 of After Midnight

“So,” I start after I’ve finished my tea and set it on the small patio table between us, “I . . . met someone.”

Mom turns to look at me. “You’ve met a lot of someones, Seb.” Her smile is small and teasing.

I let out a light laugh, my fingers drumming on my thighs. “Yeah, but . . . I think this one is different.”

The smile slips slowly from her mouth, and she leans forward in her patio chair, making it creak. Her brown eyes catch the sunlight despite the floppy gardening hat she’s wearing. “Really?”

I nod once. “Yeah. I wanted to tell you about her.” I reach into the pocket of my shorts and pull my phone out, then swipe through my photos until I get to the one that Remi sent me what feels like a lifetime ago, of her sitting in front of her vanity, makeup halfway done, black hair pulled up into a messy bun on the top of her head. I hand Mom the phone, and she looks down at it, her mouth opening as she stares.

“That’s Remi,” I say.

Mom continues to stare, and without looking up at me, she says, “She’s beautiful, Seb.” Then, slowly, her brown eyes find mine. “But you’ve been with lots of beautiful women.” One of her eyebrows arches up at me questioningly. “What’s different about her?”

It sounds like such a simple question, but the answer is something I can feel better than I can articulate. For a moment, I watch a bee buzz around one of Mom’s potted plants—cherry tomatoes—then say, “She doesn’t want anything from me.”

I don’t look directly at Mom when I say it, but in my periphery, I see the small drop of her shoulders.

“She knows the best pizza joint in Vegas. She can skateboard way better than me. And . . .” I take a breath, then say softly, “And it just feels right with her. In a way no one else did.”

Now I look up, and my mom is staring back at me, eyes soft, my phone still clutched in her hands. She turns her gaze down to it again, and this time when she looks at the photo, I think she’s looking a bit closer, paying better attention.

“You really like this woman?” she asks softly.

And something about the word like doesn’t sound right to me. Because I feel so much more strongly for Remi than that. But before I can answer, I hear the front door open, and my stomach immediately clenches.

Mom looks up at me, and some of the wistful calm goes from her eyes.

Heavy footsteps tread through the house, and then my father leans out of the back door.

And I don’t miss that he’s still got his boots on despite Mom’s perfectly clean carpets.

It makes one of my hands curl into a fist on my knee.

“Didn’t know you were coming,” Dad says.

My eyes meet his. They’re the same brown as mine, though his are tighter around the corners, like he’s spent more of his life glaring at things than I have. Which is about right.

“Just stopping by,” I say.

Now that he’s home, I’m going to get the fuck out of here.

“I could make lunch,” Mom says quickly. “Sandwiches?”

I shake my head as I push to my feet. “Thanks, but no. I’ve gotta get going.” Gently, I take my phone from my mom’s hands, then lean over to press a kiss to her cheek. “The garden looks beautiful. I’ll pick up some of those peppers next time I come by.”

Because I sure as hell don’t want to wait around with my father while Mom harvests and packs them up for me.

My mom’s lips pull into a small frown, and a little twirl of guilt goes through me. I hate making her frown like that.

But she knows how things are between me and Dad. And it’s been a long time since she tried to fix it—you can only fail to mend something so many times before you finally admit defeat.

I pick up the two empty glasses of iced tea, then turn to step into the house. Dad is still lingering there in the doorway, and he moves aside just enough for me to squeeze through, like he’s still trying to make me feel small even though I’m nearly a head taller than him now.

Without speaking to him, I wash the glasses in the sink, then set them out to dry on the drying rack.

“Where are you running off to so fast?” he asks as I dry my hands on the dish towel hanging from the oven door.

“Not running,” I say, trying to keep my tone even. “Just have things to do.”