Total pages in book: 136
Estimated words: 139259 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 696(@200wpm)___ 557(@250wpm)___ 464(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 139259 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 696(@200wpm)___ 557(@250wpm)___ 464(@300wpm)
Her eyes widen as realization must hit her. “Not quite lemonade, but close enough.” I pour her a cup of iced tea and hand it to her.
She laughs, shaking her head. “You thought of everything.”
“Not everything. But it’s a start.”
She sits beneath the tree, her back against the trunk, and I join her.
We sit in silence, the only noise coming from the sounds of the farm as day turns into night.
“This is nice,” she says, her voice barely above a whisper.
“Yeah,” I agree, looking at her instead of the horizon. “It is.”
71
Hudson
An hour later, we’re back in the house. We still have to unpack before bed, but since I’m not ready to call it a night, I decide to show Molly around a bit.
The impromptu tour isn’t just for her. It’s for me too.
I want to see her eyes when I tell her the stories of this place. When I share my memories with her, will she get it? Will she understand how much this house means to me?
How much I want her to feel like she belongs here?
I hope so.
I lead her into the living room first. Unable to resist a little drama, I give the summary with all the flair of a teen at drama camp. “The living room,” I announce, sweeping my arm like I’m unveiling something grand. “Where many a family movie night went down and where my dad once fell asleep during Home Alone and woke up convinced burglars were breaking into the house.”
She laughs, the sound warm and effortless, and I can’t help but grin. “Sounds like fun,” she says.
“The stories I can tell.” I point to a dent in the wood floor. “That’s from when Anna tried to skate . . . with skates on.”
Her mouth drops open. “In the house?”
“Yep. Let’s just say Mom was pissed.”
“I bet.” Molly laughs so hard, I can’t help but laugh too.
It’s not just a house to her anymore, and that matters to me more than I expected it to.
Next, we head to the kitchen.
“I know this isn’t a new room, but a tour isn’t a tour unless I tell you a story in each room.”
“Is that so?” she teases.
“It is.” I point my hand to the oven. “For example, that’s where I accidentally set a fire and almost burned down the house.”
Molly gasps.
“Don’t worry. We put it out.”
“You think?” She rolls her eyes.
I run a hand along the counter as I talk. “This is where Mom makes the magic happen. Her cinnamon rolls are legendary. One time, Mason tried to bribe her into making them for the whole team. Maybe you’ll get lucky, and she’ll make some while you’re here.” I throw in a wink.
“Did it work?” she asks.
“Of course it did,” I reply with a laugh. “Mom can’t resist feeding people. But Mason had to help clean the barn in exchange. He lasted ten minutes before he bailed. Pun intended.”
Her laughter fills the kitchen, and I feel a swell of pride. I don’t know what it is about making her laugh, but it feels like winning a game in overtime. Like I’d do anything just to hear it again.
After a quick stop in the dining room, where I point out the chair I broke when I was ten trying to pull off an “epic dive,” we head upstairs. The air feels quieter up here, more personal. She’s walking through memories I haven’t shared with anyone in a long time.
We stop in the hallway, and I gesture to my door. “Obviously, you know that’s my room.”
“Hard to miss the hockey shrine when I first walked in there,” she says dryly, her eyes sparkling as she gestures to the posters and trophies lining the walls.
“Hey, those were my glory days,” I say, feigning offense.
She rolls her eyes but smiles anyway, and I feel like I’m fourteen again, trying to impress someone I like. God, I’m pathetic. But also? I kind of don’t care.
“And this,” I say, stopping in front of the door across the hall, “is Anna’s room.”
I push the door open, and she peeks inside. The bright and cheerful room is full of books, art supplies, and Anna’s signature chaos. Photos and postcards cover the corkboard on the wall, a patchwork of her life.
“She’s the artistic one in the family.” That is obvious from the state of her room. But I still point out a sketch pad on her desk. “Always painting or drawing something.”
“That’s amazing,” Molly says, turning to look at me.
“She’s amazing,” I say simply because it’s true. “Sometimes she’s a pain in the ass, of course, but I love her.”
We head back into the hallway. “Now, where is this craft room?”
I’m sure it’s obvious to Molly that there is no craft room, or at least there never was. Neither one of us is in any denial that something was up with my mother.