Chapter 8

HOME SWEET UNKNOWN

8

My eyelids flutter open to the pressing tug on my arm. "Miss, miss, this is your station. You're going to miss your stop," the older woman next to me urges.

My foggy mind snaps alert, and I scramble to my feet. The train is already slowing as we pull into the station.

"Thanks so much," I tell the woman, my voice croaky with the remnants of sleep as I fumble for my overnight bag squished into the overhead compartment. It comes down with a thud. I clutch my handbag close, checking nothing spilled out—especially Killian's book—and nod to the kind stranger. "Really, thank you."

"Of course, dear." She smiles, revealing a treasure trove of laugh lines around her eyes.

"Have a nice trip." I wave goodbye and hurriedly step off the train onto the crowded platform.

As I walk along the track, the skin of my heels feels chafed against the soft leather of my boots in the same places where the blisters were in my dream.

That's impossible. I'm being ridiculous. Still, I can't shake off the sensation. I have to check. I stop and balance on one foot as I remove one boot. Squatting in a four pose, I drop my ankle on my bent knee and lower the sock to check my heel. There are no blisters.

Of course there are no blisters. Still, the skin feels a little tender. I shake my head and put my boot back on. Those too-realistic dreams are really scrambling with my head.

When I make it to the station's main entrance, Mom and Dad stand waiting, big smiles on their faces as they spot me. Warmth spreads through me, seeing them both here to welcome me home.

"Leighton!" Mom exclaims, her arms outstretched as if she could gather all my worries and tuck them away in her embrace.

I rush to them, and we hug tight.

"Hey, kiddo," Dad chimes in, his arms enveloping me with a warmth that seeps into my bones.

"Guys, I can't believe you're both here." My voice wavers, a cocktail of gratitude and guilt. They must be swamped with the party preparations.

"Wouldn't miss picking up our girl," Dad says, pride glowing in his eyes.

"We're so proud of you, honey," Mom adds, and it's as if she's stapling gold stars on my forehead, except I don't feel like I've earned them.

"Thanks." I force a smile, touched yet feeling like a fraud. If they knew how broke and directionless I've been lately, would they still beam with pride?

"How's grad school coming along?" Dad asks.

"Oh, you know, lots of research and writing," I say, not wanting to get into how my advisor doesn't respect me.

"Got anything new published?"

"Nope."

"Ah, never mind. Let's get you home and you can tell us more about your research," Dad says, ushering us toward the car parked just outside the station.

I slide into the backseat. The Honda smells just like I remember—Dad's minty gum, Mom's lavender perfume. It's a scent that reminds me of being young and carefree—safe. If only I could stay here in this backseat forever.

But all too soon, we're pulling up to my parents' house, a cozy one-story with wood siding, its yellow paint cheerful even in the fading light. This isn't the house where I grew up. The moment I tossed my graduation cap, Mom and Dad downsized to this lovable one-bedroom nest out of the expensive school district where we used to live, which they couldn't really afford. I'll be forever grateful for all the sacrifices they made to send me to a good high school.

"Home sweet home," Dad announces cheerily.

I grab my bags from the seat and follow them inside, resigning myself to the couch-sleeping fate that awaits me post-party. Since I've no bedroom, I'll have to wait for everyone to be gone before I can conk in. But it's fine; Midwestern parties end early.

The smell of cheese curds is the first thing that hits me as I enter the house.

"I made all your favorites," Mom says, dropping her jacket and heading straight for the kitchen. I follow.

The counters are covered with trays of appetizers—bacon-wrapped dates, mini butter burgers, cheese and crackers… My mouth waters.

"Anything I can do to help?" I ask.

"Oh no, dear. You just relax. Tell me all about school," Mom says.

I launch into a highly edited version, focusing on classes and campus life. No need to worry her with my advisor issues or money woes.

"And are you seeing anyone special?" she asks hopefully.

I blush, thoughts going to Killian. Do dream men count? I'm afraid not. "Not at the moment."

Her face falls.

"But I have a date this Friday," I comfort her, picking up a mini quiche.

"Oh." She brightens immediately, her hands busy arranging the cheese and crackers into a more appealing display. "Someone from school?"

"No, he's the brother of Ivy's new boyfriend." I take a small bite. "She swears we'll be perfect for each other."

"Ivy is such a nice young lady." Mom nods approvingly as she slides a tray of canapés into the oven, her movements fluid and practiced. "How are things going at her new job?"

Before I can answer, the doorbell rings. Mom straightens her apron and pats down her dress. "Here we go!"

Guests stream in—my parents' friends, colleagues, our old neighbors. I paste on a smile, bracing myself for a long night of small talk with wise coupled humans.

I'm wandering around the party, wine glass in hand, trying not to visibly cringe as yet another of my parents' friends asks if I have a boyfriend. "Not at the moment," I reply with a tight smile, taking a generous sip of cabernet.

"Such a shame," another chimes in, shaking her head. "A pretty girl like you should have someone special."

"Actually, I'm focusing on my studies right now," I counter, moving to a different area of the living room even if, with the house so small, there's nowhere to escape. If I had had a bedroom, I'd be holed up in there.

"Leighton, dear!" Mom's friend, Mrs. Thompson, calls me over. She's showing a baby picture to my mother.

"Oh my gosh, did Kelly have a baby?" I ask excitedly.

Kelly's mom gives me a puzzled look. "A baby? This is her third!"

My eyes widen in surprise. Kelly's only a couple of years older than me. How does she already have three kids? I force a smile. "Wow, congrats to her! They grow up so fast, don't they?" I gulp down the rest of my wine, suddenly feeling out of place in my own skin, like I've missed a crucial memo on how to live life properly.

"Thank you, dear." Mrs. Thompson beams.

I hide out in the kitchen for the second half of the night, loading the dishwasher multiple times so Mom and Dad won't have to deal with the dishes later. Finally, it's time for the presents. I made my parents a video montage of their relationship, knowing they'd appreciate something heartfelt more than an expensive gift—also I couldn't afford anything of value. As the photo reel of their years together plays, everyone coos at the memories flashing by, and some even wipe away tears.

The video is the night's grand finale, and afterward, the guests start to disperse, offering warm wishes for my parents' anniversary as they go. I feel a little unsteady on my feet. Maybe I shouldn't have had that last glass of wine.

With my mom's help, I make up the sofa bed.

"Goodnight, honey." She kisses my forehead before leaving me alone in the dimly lit room that's spinning a little.

I collapse into bed, slightly dizzy. Just as I'm about to pass out, I remember my cowboy book in my bag. I grab it and curl up contentedly. Within moments, I'm drifting off, my head still spinning as I wake up mid-pirouette on a crowded barn bar dance floor where I'm line dancing?

Oh, gosh!