Page 27 of Changing Lanes

My mom and I would cook meals for our family, too, but it never even came close to this amount of food. She has sides for the sides.

“I didn’t believe Marcos when he told me a girl was moving in.” I place my hands on the counter behind me, watching as she floats around the kitchen, completely at ease in her surroundings. “These boys, they’re tough. It’s always been them against everyone else, even the ones that are supposed to love them most. Especially the ones supposed to love them most.” I perk up at that but she pauses, staring at the floor. Is she talking about all the guys? “Anyway, it would do them some good to have a feminine touch around here. It might soften them up a little.”

“I wouldn’t count on it.” Her eyebrows draw together, so I say, “I grew up with all boys,” like that explains everything. When she still appears unconvinced, I shrug, moving away from her intense stare. “So, what can I do?”

Esme just shakes her head, shooing me out of the kitchen. “You go have fun. Marcos tells me you’ve done two things since you moved in—work and sleep. Today, you can play. You all have that in common, you know? Your work obsession. You need some balance though. That’s what I try to always tell my Joaquin but he’s as stubborn as an ass.” She all but spits the last word and I smile softly at her.

That knife strikes again.

“I don’t know. I think they have the playing part down just fine,” I say, realizing I haven’t been out to the races lately. I should go one of these Saturdays. Have some fun of my own while also finding someone to have fun with.

Esme cuts a hand in the air. “They’re just practicing.”

Now I’m the one that’s confused.

“For?”

“For the real thing. For love,” she states as if it’s obvious. “They’re, how do you say, throwing oats?”

“Sowing wild oats.”

“Yes, sowing oats.” She snaps her fingers. “They’re making all their mistakes now so when they fall in love, they’ll get it right.”

“I’m not sure that’s how it works,” I mumble. It sounds like a lame excuse to sleep around. If you’ve got an itch, there’s nothing wrong with having someone scratch it, but don’t pretend like it’s part of some bigger picture. I know I don’t.

She leads me to the door, turning to face me with a seriousness I wasn’t expecting.

“Trust me, when those boys settle down, it’ll be for real and it’ll be for life. Whoever can bring one of them to their knees is a lucky woman.”

“Well, I can tell you it won’t be me.”

Although, the thought of Beckett on his knees is rather enticing and I’d like to revisit that image later, when I’m alone.

Her eyes search mine and I’m about to look away when she shrugs her shoulders, saying, “if you say so,” before returning to the kitchen.

I descend the back stairs thinking over Esme’s comment about being obsessed with work. I never realized I was obsessed with work. I don’t think I even was until recently, now that I have very real, very large bills to cover.

My mother worked her ass off my entire childhood to pay for everything my brothers and I needed, and made sure to have health insurance on all of us kids. I never knew until her diagnosis that she’d been skimping on her own coverage to decrease the monthly payments. Had been for years. I’m not sure if the boys understand the repercussions of that but I connected the dots right away. Our mother wasn’t going to regular doctor visits, let alone any specialists, squashing any chance of possibly catching the early onset symptoms sooner.

While it’s true there’s no cure, we would’ve had more time to figure out what to do with the time we had her at full capacity. I miss her easy smiles. I miss her light laughs. I would’ve counted each one like I do with Jesse’s, saving them for days like today when I need them most. I would’ve started saving money earlier instead of wasting it on shit I no longer care about.

I would’ve, I would’ve, I would’ve.

God, the guilt is enough to choke the words from even bubbling out of my weak throat. The overwhelming urge to claw my neck has my hands trembling at my sides.

An unfamiliar voice—an unfamiliar female voice—catches me off guard, saying, “penny for your thoughts,” as soon as I hit the bottom step.

Next to the outdoor staircase is a pretty brunette I’ve never seen before. Or maybe I have? Something about her seems familiar. Her long straight hair is pulled into a high pony and the words sun-kissed come to mind. If we lived near a beach, she’d be there. She’s got a skater vibe to her but looks too dainty to actually skate. Athletic for sure though, if her clothes are any indication.

She smells like strawberries and sunshine.

Her eyes. As weird as it sounds I’ve seen her eyes before. For a brief flicker of time, maybe from another life, but I know I’ve seen them. They’re not the kind a person forgets easily. Not only the distinct color—hazel—but the pain buried in them.

I tap my temple. “These ones cost a nickel.”

She laughs lightly and I like it. I like her.

“I figured. This place breeds damaged goods.”