“Then you’ll let us help you if you want to take some?”
“I don’t know. I mean, they’re probably expensive.”
“We paid for Janice’s college. All of it. We could definitely afford a few classes here and there. The house has been paid off for years, and we’re both still working.”
“I know, but it’s your money.”
“It is, which is why I should be able to spend it how I want.”
Mom gives me a look that tells me I might as well save my protests because she’s not in the mood for arguments. To her, it is already decided, and she actually looks excited for me.
When the kettle clicks, Mom pours the water into two cups. While the bags brew into something dark and barely drinkable, at least to my taste, she turns back to face me, a watery smile in place.
“I know the past few years haven’t been easy for you, Rowan. Your father and I have been worried about you. I just wanted you to know how much we love you and how proud we are of you. If you want to do this retro business, then we’ll do what we can to support you. A few of the ladies at work were talking about this site, where you can make a website with no experience. And you can also order business cards from just about anywhere if you need them. You have great taste and great style. I know you’ll do just fine.”
I have to blink back at my mom. I have no idea where this is coming from. Every single time I’ve been to my parent’s house since the day I met Calvin, our visits have been strained and uncomfortable. Before I met Calvin, I always felt welcome. I never felt like they judged me or disapproved of me. I guess I just knew how worried they were for me, and it made me feel weird and guilty. I kind of might have thought it was them. But I don’t blame them.
Now, standing here staring at my mom’s soft expression, I guess I’m starting to realize that maybe some of the strain between us was all in my mind, and the whole problem was me. I’m not sure why I suddenly have a different perspective. I guess maybe I really have changed these past few weeks. But why? Was it what Cliff said that night we were on our fake date? Was it what Janice said? Maybe it was just time.
Mom checks her watch again as she goes to remove the tea bags, surprising me, because I figured they’d be in there for a good ten minutes. She slips on her set of old oven mitts and hustles over to the oven before returning with a pan of delicious smelling chocolate chip cookies.
“Your dad will be home in an hour or so. Do you want to stay until then?”
A few weeks ago, I would have said no. I would have muttered something about being busy or made some excuse about work. I wouldn’t have done it to be mean, but because I just wouldn’t have known what to say. I would have worried about it, and it would have made me nervous and uncomfortable.
Now, there’s nothing fake about my smile. “Sure.” I nod at my mom. “We can sit down, and you can tell me about what’s been going on around here while I sample those cookies.”
CHAPTER 16
Cliff
My palms are so sweaty that they just about slip off my steering wheel. I know I’m in serious shit. When I finally got my phone back and powered it on, I saw all of Rowan’s messages. That was an hour ago. I just hope she’s home.
I don’t know what number to buzz, and I only realize it when I’m standing in front of her apartment. No one has their names on the little buzzer. It’s just apartment numbers. I stare at it for a few seconds before I reach for my phone. I charged it in the car on the way, but it still only has just over ten percent battery life.
I hit Rowan’s number and hold the phone up. It rings. And rings. And rings some more. When it goes to her voicemail, I sigh hard and hang up. I study my phone for a minute before I decide to try again. I call her two more times without any success. I’m about to admit defeat when I stare back at the buzzer buttons. There are only twelve in the whole list. Determined, I reach out and punch the first one.
“Hello?” A deep male voice comes over the intercom.
“Sorry,” I say, pressing the button to talk. “I obviously have the wrong apartment. Do you know which number is Rowan Mills?”
“No,” the guy barks. “But this isn’t her.”
Yeah, I got that.
I punch the second buzzer. It’s just after seven, so most people are already home from work. A lady with a heavily accented voice informs me that no, she’s not Rowan, and no, she doesn’t know which buzzer is Rowan’s.
I try the third. No one answers. I skip to the fourth, and an elderly man wishes me luck. I hit the fifth and sixth with no luck. By the time I reach for seven, I start to feel weird about this. I press it anyway, determined to make it through the list. I really hope Rowan isn’t twelve. Maybe I should have started there. When I get no answer on seven, I move on to eight.
