More Than I Could (64)

I smile. “You’re tired of takeout?”

She laughs, and the sound soothes my soul.

“How are you liking Peachwood Falls?” she asks.

“Oh, it’s … fine.”

She hums. “How is Chase? Are you two getting along?”

“Yeah. We’re getting along swimmingly.”

“Okay, that sounds suspicious.”

I take a sip of my coffee. “I don’t know what to tell you. We’re managing just fine.”

“That’s good. Maggie called last night and said they’re having a ball at Kate’s. Apparently, Kate’s roommate moved out, so they’ve been patching, painting, and getting ready in case someone else moves in. You know how much they love a project.”

“I didn’t know they were project people, but I can see that.”

“Maggie bought the house they live in now because it needed so much work,” Mom says, chuckling. “Lonnie wanted another place closer to town, but Maggie was desperate to get her hands dirty in that old farmhouse. She thinks you can’t make a house a home without putting in elbow grease. I don’t know that I agree.”

I mosey down the hallway, past the stairs, and into the living room. The wind picks up outside, and sheets of rain pour past the windows. I pick up a blanket off the couch and put it over the back where it belongs.

“I can see what she’s saying,” I say.

“You can?”

Shrugging, I sit on the ottoman—and grin. “Yeah. Think about it. Think about my apartment in LA. It was a box that I came to after work. I slept there. Ate there. But it was essentially the same box someone else occupied before I arrived. It wasn’t mine. It never felt like mine.”

She hums in agreement.

I take a deep breath. “Iyala called and offered me my job back.”

My statement is met with silence.

“I told them I wasn’t sure,” I say. “They asked me to email them my response, but I haven’t.”

“Oh.”

“They called on Friday.”

“And it’s Wednesday, and you’re just telling me?”

I stand, prickled by her defensiveness.

“Are you going to go?” she asks.

Sighing, I close my eyes. “I don’t know, Mom. I don’t know what to do.”

“Do you want to go back to California?”



“No,” I say cautiously. “I don’t. I mean, it’s a job, and I need a job. I can’t live with you forever.”

“Well, you could.”

Her response makes me grin. “I know I could, but I can’t. I don’t want to.”

“I’ll try not to take offense to that.” She laughs. “I understand what you’re saying, and you’re right. You shouldn’t want to live with your mom.”

My hand slides along the mantel over the fireplace as I view the framed pictures on the ledge. All the Marshalls are present, and most are with Kennedy. But my favorite one of all is Chase with his brothers.

I pick up the silver frame and inspect it closer.

Gavin and Luke flank Chase. A taller, darker, tattooed version of them stands on the other side of Gavin. Someone must have told a joke seconds before the picture was snapped because all four are laughing. Gavin points at Luke, Luke’s head is thrown back, and his eyes are squeezed shut. Mallet is smirking as if he’s fighting his amusement. And Chase? He’s smiling from ear to ear, displaying a pure happiness I’ve rarely seen since I met him.

And I love it. I love that look on his handsome face.

I set the picture down.

“Mom?”

“What, honey?”

“Is Dallas your home?”

“Well, I live here.”

I perch on the arm of the sofa. “But living there doesn’t mean it’s your home. Do you know what I mean?”

She hesitates, pulling in a breath as she considers my question.

“I’ve been thinking about that a lot lately,” I say. “How can I be thirty years old and still feel like a vagabond? Shouldn’t I be settled by now instead of avoiding serious relationships and only dating emotionally unavailable men?”

“That’s probably my fault.”

“I’m not bringing this up to make it your fault, Mom.”

“Oh, Megan, I know. But that doesn’t change the fact that I haven’t set a very good example for you over the years.”

My insides still.

We don’t talk about this much, and we talk about it in depth even less. I don’t want to make her feel bad for anything she’s done. I’m sure she doesn’t spark a conversation about this because she doesn’t want me to feel inadequate about my choices. So we tiptoe around the topic like we’re walking on ice, afraid it’ll crack and we’ll fall through.

Neither of us wants to freeze to death.

But maybe now is the time we address things.

“For what it’s worth,” I say softly, “I think you’ve set a great example. You’re strong and smart, and don’t let anything bring you down. Look at the life you made for us. Think about all the memories we have together.”

“I appreciate that more than you know. But I … I’m responsible for the way you feel about relationships. You don’t want to let anyone in because you don’t want to wind up like me—old and alone with a string of men behind you. So instead of settling down and having a family—beautiful babies that I know would be the sweetest thing for you, honey—you stay on this island where you feel safe.” She sighs. “I can’t blame you for that. But I hate it.”