6. Hannah

SIX

I use my hip to shut the car door since my hands are full of drinks, then make my way around the back bumper to the little brick walkway leading to the front of my house.

It'd be nice to park in the garage, but Mom's car takes up the one and only spot. Which I've insisted on since I'd feel like a real asshole making her scrape snow off her windshield in the winter.

Having a two-car garage would be glorious, but this cozy little hundred-year-old house has been our home for the last decade, and that's not changing anytime soon.

I shift the drink carrier into one hand and use the other to unlock the front door.

The entryway is really just a space big enough to pile shoes under the bench and hang coats on the hooks above it. Then the house opens into a living room on the right and a dining room on the left, which leads into a small but well-loved kitchen.

Open concepts were not all the rage back when this bad boy was designed.

I set the drinks on the bench and tug my ankle boots off, then peel my suit jacket from my body. It's a warm July day outside, but most of my current sweaty situation is due to stress.

Voices come from the kitchen, so I pick the drinks back up and head that way.

There are days I wish I lived alone. And on the drive home, I was feeling like today was one of those days. But now that I'm here, I'm glad I don't.

When I step through the archway into the kitchen, Mom and Chelsea stop talking and look up. Both wrist deep in red sauce, cheese, and noodles.

"Nothing says summer like baking a lasagna." I laugh.

"We can always freeze it if you have something better in mind." Mom gives me a look of innocence, knowing damn well it's one of my favorite meals.

"You wouldn't dare." I narrow my eyes.

Mom grins. "We all know pasta is worth the sacrifice of a few degrees."

"True," I agree, even though the kitchen will jump a solid fifteen degrees with the oven going. "Well, get to layering so you guys can join me in a predinner drink."

"Frozen hot chocolate with whipped marshmallow?" our resident twelve-year-old asks.

"Duh," I reply.

There's a small island on wheels in the center of the room, which is where the assembly is taking place, and I set the carrier down on the corner, hopefully out of the splash zone.

Mom eyes them. "That an iced chai for me?"

I prop a hand on my hip. "I'm about to get offended by these questions."

I pick up the third beverage and take a drink of my iced matcha latte.

"So," Mom starts, "getting us all BeanBag Coffee on the way home means that the interview either went really well or…"

I take another pull of the frothy goodness while I decide how to answer.

"Uh-oh." Chelsea makes a face at Mom as she lays another wide strip of pasta in the pan.

"It was fine," I say before they can start with their theories. "I still have my job. Nothing is changing."

"And you're not happy about that because…?" Mom raises a brow at me.

If I could, I would play it all off. I'd tell them nothing. Pretend nothing was amiss. And go on with life as usual.

But I'm not good at pretending. I can fake it for an interview. Or a brief interaction. But I can't pull it off long term. And I'd rather be honest now than have it all come out later.

They're both staring at me.

"I know the owner. And—" I stop there.

And what? I don't hate him. Not really. I don't even know him. Not anymore. Plus, there's no reason to believe he'll even be in the office that much.

Or… will he?

Dammit, I should have asked around. Figured out if he's the type of owner who actually works at the company or if he just shows up every once in a while to check on his investment.

He wasn't interacting in the interview before Peter said my last name, but maybe he was dealing with something important on his phone.

Or maybe he was being a dick.

How am I supposed to know?

"Uh, Grandma. I think someone needs to reset Aunt Hannah."

"Maybe we should add a little extra cheese to the top layer," Mom replies. "That might help."

I snort. "You two are ridiculous."

"And you're glitching like a robot in a rainstorm," Chelsea retorts.

"I think I preferred you as a baby who couldn't talk back."

She laughs. "No way. Babies are gross."

I have to nod my agreement, because they kinda are.

And to be fair, when Chelsea came to live with us, she was already two, so more a toddler than an infant.

"Oh, stop it." Mom clicks her tongue. "Babies are adorable. And if your Aunt Hannah ever left the house for something other than work, then maybe she could meet a man and have a baby of her own."

"Mom," I groan.

"I'm just saying." She points to the bag of shredded mozzarella. "Now tell us what happened while you dump that on top of here."

Picking it up by the corners— because I don't trust that they haven't grabbed it with their messy hands— I shake the rest of the cheese on top of the lasagna.

When I set the bag down, they're both staring at me again.

"You ready to tell us how you know this new owner?" Mom asks.

I puff out my cheeks. "He's just a guy I used to know back in college. I didn't realize he was in the industry, so I wasn't expecting to see him sitting in on the interview. It caught me off guard, is all." There, the truth without too much information.

"Guy from college?" Mom narrows her eyes.

Chelsea wiggles her eyebrows. "Did you date him? Is he like an ex-boyfriend or something?"

The tween is too clever for her own good.

Mom's eyes widen. "Hannah," she gasps. "Is it… you know… the football player?"

I let out a loud groan as I pinch the bridge of my nose.

"That's a yes." Chelsea snickers. "Who's the football player?"

"This boy your aunt—"

"Mom!" I try to cut her off, but she ignores me.

"— had a crush on when she went to HOP University. But she was only there a little while since she had to come home after my stroke. And she never got to see him again."

I'm annoyed with my past self for telling my mom that much, but after she got out of the hospital, she could tell something was distracting me. So I told her about the boy I liked.

But I didn't tell her the whole truth, about just how much my heart was broken. Because Mom's a romantic, and she would've insisted I go back even if we both knew that was impossible.

"Aw, that's sad." Chelsea's mouth tips into a frown. Then she asks the real question. "Is he still cute?"

Instead of replying, I put the straw between my lips and suck down half my matcha.