I smile back, not wanting to tell her that the two words she’s used to praise me over the years were part of what made me try to tough it out with Todd. I’m strong. I can handle a few rough nights. Deal with the fights. Work through our issues. I’m smart. I don’t make stupid mistakes…like agreeing to marry the wrong man.
“I just want to be happy again. Which means starting to get my life in order.”
Mom sets her coffee down and comes over, putting her hand on my shoulder. “Your father always wanted you to take over his practice, you know.”
“I do, and I always thought I would. I like Eastwood,” I assure her. “It’s not as exciting as doing real estate law in New York, but this was always my end game, and I was more than happy with it.”
Williams & Beck Attorneys at Law is a far cry from the big company I worked for in New York, but it’s always done well for itself. Todd encouraged me to leave the small town law for something bigger and better, and at the time, it seemed like he was pushing me to get the most out of my education. No one can fault him for wanting me to get a good job, but he never understood the sense of community here in Eastwood.
“That’s all a mother wants, you know.” Mom rubs my back and then goes back to her coffee. “For her children to be happy. Well, within reason. If you said your passion was to be in the adult film industry while selling meth on the side, I might try to persuade you otherwise.”
“That can be very lucrative, you know. Though I’d probably need to get a boob job to do well in porn.”
Mom laughs, shaking her head. “It’s good to have you home, honey. I wish it were under different circumstances, but having you here just feels right. Like you’re home.”
I look out the window at the tidy but small back yard. Mom teaches art at the local elementary school and is off for the summer. She gardens a lot and makes weird wind chimes out of recycled materials and crystals. She’s the stereotypical new-age artist and is the exact opposite of my lawyer father.
“It does feel like home. But don’t take it personally when I say I’d like to get out on my own.”
Mom laughs and pulls out a stool at the island for me. I take it as my cue to sit while she makes me breakfast.
“I was your age once,” she reminds me with a wink. “And I wouldn’t want to be living with my parents either.”
Right on cue, my phone rings. It’s Daryl, the landlord from the only apartment complex here in Eastwood. We talk for a few minutes, I jot a few notes down and then end the call.
“Well?” Mom asks, turning away from the omelet she’s cooking.
“Good and bad news,” I tell her. “The apartment complex is full, but one tenant is moving out at the end of next month. If I can bring the deposit by today, he’ll reserve it for me.”
“And are you?”
“I’m going to see if there are any nice rentals in town first. I don’t need anything too big or fancy. After living in a tiny studio apartment in the city, anything over five hundred square feet will feel like a mansion.”
“And with what you paid for it…” Mom clicks her tongue and turns back to the stove. “You’re welcome here, you know. Having you here for the summer will be nice too.”
“Yeah,” I agree. “It will be.”* * *
“That’s something you didn’t get to see in the city, huh, girl?” I run my hand over Tulip’s long fur. She’s sitting in the open window, face pressed up against the screen as she watches a bunch of birds swarm around one of the many bird feeders in the back yard. We had birds fluttering by, of course, but it wasn’t anything like this.
I run my hand over her fur once more and then tighten my ponytail. Stretching my arms out in front of me as I walk, I go downstairs and outside for a run. It’s a little after ten AM now, and the sun is already out and shining brightly down on my face.
It makes me feel like everything is going to be okay. Which it will be. I stretch for another minute or two, turn my music on, and take off. My parents live in the downtown area of Eastwood, and these few blocks look like something out of a Hallmark movie. Most of the houses in this section of town are historic and have been carefully maintained or restored, like my parents’ 1925 craftsman-style house.
I jog down the street, nostalgia filling my heart more and more with each step. Running this block used to be a routine. I’ve passed by these houses, over this patch of uneven sidewalk pushed up by tree roots, every morning. Now, I can’t remember the last time I ran through Eastwood like this.