The Reunion(12)

“You told them to sell?” Palmer asks, standing from her seat. “How could you do that, Coop? You know what this house means to us.”

“Hey now, this was our decision ultimately,” Dad cuts in. “And ultimately, the house is too big for us. If you visited more often, maybe we’d consider keeping it, but you don’t. There’s no keeping a large piece of property when we’re the only ones who live here. I hate to say it, but we’re selling, and you’re going to have to clean out your rooms. There are growing families who could benefit from such a wonderful place to make memories.”

“What about our memories?” Palmer asks, getting more emotional than I expected.

Yeah, I thought they were going to be caught off guard, but I wasn’t planning on this kind of reaction.

“Palmer, you’ll still have your memories,” Mom says, a worried look on her face.

“No, some other family will.” With that, she goes to the kitchen, where I see her grab a bottle of wine and head out to the back deck.

“I’ll go talk to her,” Ford says, standing. No surprise there—they’ve always been close.

Which leaves me with Mom and Dad.

Once again.

Unable to look them in the eyes, I stare down at my pudding bowl. “So, that went well.”

I glance up to the disapproving expressions in my parents’ faces.

“Or maybe not,” I mutter.





CHAPTER SIX





PALMER


I tip the bottle of wine back and let the warm liquid flow down my throat.

They’re selling the house.

Actually selling it.

To go live in some sort of high-rise where they can bake cookies for strangers who know binary code better than the English language.

Where the hell did that idea even come from?

Dad wears shorts with holes in the crotch—he’s not a high-rise kind of guy. Mom takes great care of her garden and grows prize-winning zucchinis. Zucchinis that would make any woman weak in the knees with one girthy glance. Does she think she can have a garden in a high-rise?

And not to be selfish or anything, but . . . where the hell am I going to live?

Yeah, my parents are well off and all, but there’s no way in hell I would ever ask them for money, not after everything that happened . . .

And besides, I’ve spent most of my life hearing my parents tell me over and over again, We make our own way, we make our own life.

To prove to them I’m not a screwup, that I didn’t need their assistance, that’s what I set out to do, make my own path, but boy oh boy did that come back to bite me in the ass.

Now I find myself toeing chipped wood on the deck, thinking about how my life has gotten to this point.

The possibility of being homeless—actually homeless—feels like a punch to the gut. There’s nothing left to do but tip back the wine bottle, again and again.

Glug, glug, glug, there go all my plans.

Talk about a kick to the old baby maker.

Childhood house? Gone.

Devious schemes to not end up homeless and broke? Out the window.

Whoosh, just like that, all my worries come flooding back like an endless tidal wave, crashing into me over and over again.

“Hey, slow down there, kiddo,” Ford says, popping out onto the deck. He attempts to take my wine bottle away from me, but when it comes to her “grape juice,” this mama bear is protective.

“This is my wine; get your own bottle,” I hiss.

“I would, but there’s none left.”

Facts.

Hmm, maybe that’s why I’m also more on the emotional side right now . . .

Pffft.

No, wine doesn’t make you emotional.

Wine makes you feel . . . it makes you feel . . . like you’re galloping on the back of a prancing unicorn.

“Why are you doing that?” Ford asks.

“Doing what?” I pause and take inventory of my limbs.

“You’re pretending you’re on the back of a horse, galloping in place.”

Huh . . . I thought I was just dreaming about that.

“Don’t you worry about what I’m doing,” I say, straightening up as I motion to the house. “You should be worrying about what they’re doing.” I lean forward and lower my voice to a dramatic whisper. “A high-rise? Ford, come on. They are not a high-rise couple. People who live in high-rise apartments don’t know what shopping at a Costco feels like. Can you imagine Mom and Dad not buying in bulk? Honestly, it’s too traumatic for me to even think about. Not to mention, they built an enterprise from being down-to-earth nature people. Moving to a high-rise apartment where they have inside jokes with the doorman completely contradicts the foundation they built their family on.”

He sticks his hands in his pockets and looks back at the house. “It is rather confusing.”

Ugh, Ford. Always the calm one. The sensible one. The responsible older brother who thinks logically, never ever thinking with his heart. Not sure the computer in his brain knows how to calculate emotions or play off the drama life hands him.

This is not a calm, pensive moment.

This is an all-out, rear up the rotors, fire up the engines, throw gas on the flames kind of moment.

I’m going to need anger from him.