Don't Let Go(19)

“Ditto,” she muttered.
Well, so much for the relaxing girls’ night at home. I tried again in the living room.
“Grab the TV trays and we’ll see what’s on.”
She stared at me as if I’d grown horns. “We’re eating junk food—and eating it in the living room?”
“Good Lord,” I muttered, grabbing the trays myself. “You’d think it was the first time ever.”
“First time in Nonnie’s house,” Becca said, setting her plate on a tray and settling herself on the couch next to me as Harley jumped up on the other side of her and stared. “We did it sometimes at the blue house, but never here.”
I looked at her. “That’s crazy, Bec, that was four years ago.”
She held up her hands. “Just saying.” She scratched Harley’s chin. “I’ll save you some,” she whispered as Harley’s tail thumped.
I frowned, thinking about it, wondering if she was right. We did have a more casual lifestyle in the old house she called the blue house. Hayden and I had leased it early in our marriage when it was painted a hunter green. He never liked it and painted it a sickly beige a few years later. When we divorced, I got the house, and one of my first actions as a single woman was to paint it whatever color Becca wanted. Thank God, her favorite color was blue.
When my mother died and left us this house, I thought it made sense to move here and sell our smaller one. I’d second-guessed that decision a hundred times or more since then. Especially when I’d hear Becca refer to it as belonging to my mother, or Nonnie, as she called her. Very seldom did she refer to it as our house.
“Well, this doesn’t hurt anything,” I said, turning on the TV and attempting to make light of it. “Give the table a break for the night.”
I flipped through the on-screen guide as we ate, hoping I wouldn’t have to resort to SyFy but willing to just to keep her there. Finally, I landed on a romantic comedy she’d liked when she was younger. “Yes?” I asked.
Her shrug was the best I was going to get, but the genuine laughs that came later were proof I’d chosen well. Becca’s two major appendages, her phone and her journal, rested by her side, and every now and then she’d scribble something down or smile at a text. I couldn’t help feeling a pang of envy toward whoever was pulling that reaction from her.
I remembered her being attached to my hip when she was little, always wanting to lay in my lap to watch TV, begging me to play with her hair. I missed those days.
I leaned sideways to bump heads with her. “Loves, baby girl,” I said during a commercial break.
“Loves,” she said, pulling the afghan from the top of the couch behind her and half curling into it as she leaned against me.
“You know, I’m going to miss this kind of thing when you go off to college.”
“Eating on the couch?” she said, throwing her arms over her head in a contorted stretch I’d probably need help to get out of. “I’m pretty sure you can still do that if you want.”
I smirked. “Cute. You know what I mean. It’s been just you and me for a long time, Bec. I’m gonna miss you.”
She shrugged and finger-combed her crooked hair back. “Well, who knows,” she said, hugging a pillow with a lazy smile. “Maybe I won’t go anywhere.”
Tiny bells rang in the back of my brain. Ones that had been poised and ready to ring for months now over the lack of college application enthusiasm.
I licked my lips. “Meaning?”
“Meaning—maybe I won’t go anywhere,” she repeated, finding that broken record again.
“So, have you heard back from any of them?” I asked, fully aware of the answer since I got the mail every day.
“No, but it’s early,” she said. “Besides, there’s always Community College if nothing else.”
I felt my eyebrows raise. “For an associate’s degree, Becca. For summer courses. You can’t get a master’s or even a bachelor’s degree there. For the level of teaching that you want—”
“Here we go,” she said, pulling the afghan off and sitting up.
“Here we go?” I echoed. “It’s a simple conversation, Bec, and a legitimate one. You graduate in less than six months.”
“Totally aware of that,” she said, nodding. “Believe it or not, they actually mention that once or twice at school.”
“Don’t get smart with me,” I said, feeling the tide go out. “All I’m doing is asking what the status is on your college plans. A lot of kids already have it planned out by now.”
“And—I don’t,” she said.
“I thought it was teaching.”
“I don’t know anymore,” she said.
I frowned. “But it’s always been teaching.”
She rubbed at her face. “Oh, my God, Mom, have you ever been undecided on anything ever in your life? Has everything always just fallen in place for you?”
I blinked at her, stunned, before a laugh worked up from my chest. “Are you serious?”
“Whatever.”
Becca stood and carried her TV tray back to its designated place as the show came back on, and headed toward the stairs.
“The show, baby, it’s back—”
“I’m done,” she said, waving a hand halfheartedly. “I’m—gonna go read or something. Supper was good.”
I watched her trudge up the stairs in her socks, shoes probably discarded in the kitchen. I kicked myself for ruining the night with logic. I was already missing the good vibes and warmth of hanging out with her.