5. Vera

"Are you sure this is the right place?" My ride slows down at the turn into Shady Brook Acres. The sign is a brick monstrosity with curling gilded script and oil rubbed bronze lamps that are meant more for ambience than actual lighting. The car creeps to an almost stop.

"I'm visiting," I say and the driver nods, honey blonde ponytail swishing against her headrest.

"Good," she picks up speed, following the long, tree-shaded driveway to the main building. "I was gonna say I don't think you fit the vibe here, but the suitcases had me second guessing."

She'd referring to the gold letters announcing Shady Brook as a "Continuing Care Retirement Community."

It threw me for a loop when my dad first told me my parents were moving in about a year ago. The apartments are technically open to anyone over fifty-five, but even at sixty, my mom and dad are on the younger age for residents. I'd told them if it was money, not to worry about cost—I'd finance anything they might need—but my dad was adamant that it was the right thing for them.

They didn't need all the space; he said. Shady Brook would transition from independent care to assisted to nursing as needed. When that comment sent me into a tizzy about their mortality, Dad promised they were just thinking long term. Nothing to worry about, just less space to clean and a social life came included with residency. When their moving date coincided with a big shoot for Cooper Wells, I hired the best moving company I could find and promised a two-hundred percent tip if they delivered every single item fully intact and left my folks happy with their service.

I sign in at the front desk and check the time on my watch. It's already early afternoon, so it's likely my parents will be in their apartment. My dad likes to watch the sports network after lunch while my mom reads.

"Don't worry," I say to the slack-jawed woman behind the counter, "I'm not moving in, but my hotel check-in isn't until three, so," I gesture to my luggage. "It's just visiting too."

"You're Vera Novak," she says, the words falling out of her mouth like she was desperately trying to hold them back and they slipped the leash.

"I am?" I make a production of looking over my shoulder and around the empty lounge area. "Wow. Today must be my lucky day."

"So Arthur and Cecilia are…"

"My mom and dad, yes. Lucky me." I wink.

I should definitely visit more. My parents don't advertise who I am for their own privacy and peace of mind, but it shouldn't be this surprising to a woman who literally checks-in guests. That's embarrassing on my account. I can pull up my big girl panties and fly out here more than once every decade and a half.

My parents' apartment is in the back building. It makes sense when they're more mobile than most of the other residents. The constant reminder of retirement isn't as prominent in the annex. There's a separate entrance, a balcony or patio for each unit, laundry and a gym. It's more like a standard apartment building and I recognize the Aster flower wreath my mother has hanging from the door knocker. The same one she's been hanging since we bought it together at the closest HomeGoods when I was thirteen. I smooth my hair down and rap my knuckles against the green metal.

"Coming," my mother calls from inside, and my heart rate picks up as I hear her shuffle closer. The lock tumbles and there's a faint squeak of the hinges as my mom pulls the door open and then we're staring face-to-face.

Mom and I have the same eyes and freckles, although mine clearly multiplied when I inherited them. Her hair is cropped short, just like all my memories, the graying strands curling around the base of her ears. She has the most beautiful waves when it's long. When I was little, she let me brush and braid it, the strands so different from the pin-straight hair I inherited from Dad.

"Can I help you?" Mom asks and I can see the realization hit her that it's me, not a stranger, standing at her door in the middle of the day.

It starts in her eyes, the prickle of awareness as she takes me in from head to toe, the lines that burrow into the corners of her eyes. Her brows come up, her hand presses to the top of her chest.

"Vera?"

"Hi mom," I wave, the bag with Dad's birthday gift swinging wildly from my wrist.

"Oh my goodness, come in, sweet girl. Come in." She ushers me into the apartment and it looks exactly the same as my memories, and completely foreign, all at once. I've only seen photos of the space, and there's something strange about seeing the living room set from all my childhood memories spread out in a completely different space.

There's the side table with the pale water rings I left there despite mom begging me to remember a coaster. The same lamp with the stained glass shade that Dad and I scoured the local antique stores for after we broke the original one. The couch where I first got to third base with Robbie Oakes. We were teenagers when he slid his hand down the front of my jeans and touched me through the cotton of my underwear. A year later, I lost my virginity on the same couch.

Not that I'm thinking about him again. Our past is just woven into all of my memories of this place. It makes sense that they'd boil over after coming face to face with the man after all these years. Especially when I'm an expert at lying to myself about how often I think of him.

Not every day.

Definitely not every time I need to come.

"Did Robbie drop you off?"

I stumble over the edge of the living room rug and almost brain myself on the massive cuckoo clock my dad built one summer. The one that never sends the bird out at the right time. We used to make a game of scaring newcomers. The hour would pass, Dad would shake his head and tell our guest that unfortunately the clock wasn't working, then watch as they jumped out of their skin when the bird flew out squawking roughly nine-point-three minutes later.

"Don't mind the clock," mom says. "It's not working right."

I laugh at the joke, but it's forced.

Robbie didn't drop me off, and there's no reason for mom to think he would. Unless it's nostalgia. I'm having a hard time keeping distance from the past and I've been in town for less than six hours.

"No mom, I got a rideshare."

"That's a shame." Mom wipes some imaginary lint off the top of the coffee table. "I haven't seen that boy in far too long."

It must be a parent thing to think of us as kids, even in our thirties. I wonder if she'll still think of him as a boy even when he has babies of his own. A boy maybe. Strapped into skates and pads before he can even walk. His dad holding him up, making lazy loops across the rink. The kid's red freckles and green eyes catching in the light reflected off the ice. I shake the image out of my head. For all I know, the guy has kids already, or a wife.

Okay, maybe not. I scoped out his left hand while he drove and found no band on his fourth finger. And fine, I know he hasn't been officially—or unofficially—linked with anyone. I can't even remember the last time he was photographed with a woman until Spags snapped that pic at the airport.

"Tell him to come to the door next time he picks you up."

There's not a chance that man will pick me up again, ever. My hands are still clammy just thinking about the sheer odds of just running into each other today. If we risk it again… well, I may just do the one thing I swore I never would do. Tumble right back into obsessive crush territory with a man who had no issue dropping me like a bad habit in order to pursue his dream.

Aaaaaaand? My traitorous brain pushes.

And so that I would pursue mine. Fine.

"I'm not sure that's a good idea, Mom." I use my foot to fix the corner of the rug, shifting my suitcase out of the way so it can nestle back into place.

Even if Robbie and I were planning on seeing each other again, him picking me up still wouldn't be here at Shady Brook. It would be from my hotel. Mom still wouldn't be able to say hi.

"Oh, don't worry baby, I won't say anything to embarrass you in front of your boyfriend."

Maybe I did hit my head against the damn clock. Or I'm still on the plane, dreaming. Honestly, that makes the most sense. Kimmelwick is small compared to a lot of other places in New York, but we still have close to ten-thousand people living here, and Genosa is even bigger. The odds that Robbie Oakes, who doesn't live in the area anymore either, would run into me at the arrivals area of the airport? I'm not even sure how to calculate them, but I don't think seeing him would've been a contender in most books.

"Do you want me to take your suitcase to your room?"

We both pause at that, looking around the one-room apartment. The one with the old couch not quite big enough for me to sleep on. Or anyone over the age of ten, for that matter. With their bedroom door open a crack, I can see literally every room in this apartment. It's a nice space, a very nice one, and it holds all the nostalgic touches of home, but it's not big enough for three adults, not even for a week. It hadn't even occurred to me to think of staying here. I booked a room at the only hotel in town. It's not like I don't have the expendable income.

Okay, it's not the only hotel, but the only reputable one.

"Right," she says, wringing her hands together. It's a show of nerves I've never seen from my mother before outside of major sporting events or the conclusion of American Star, the singing competition show she used to watch religiously when I was growing up. "I'm sorry."

This visit is turning out nothing like I planned and I'm trying not to let it I get to me. Trying… and failing. And I know, I know, that I showed up on a whim, unannounced, in a town I've avoided for years. And I know,I know, I can't control other people's actions, only my reactions, but I still thought all of this would go differently. Usually once the plane wheels touch down, things get better. This time, they didn't.

There was Jack Spaeglin, and while he was adorable, and very non-threatening, I had still hoped to get all the way to Shady Brook without being recognized, or having any interactions other than thanking my driver. I'd just accepted that Jack was harmless when who strolls up but my goddamn ex. And yes, I could have turned down the ride, and avoided bailing in Leavenworth, but that felt even more awkward and taxing and who knew Jack would morph from a floppy-eared pup to a pit bull the moment the car doors slammed shut?

Shopping was uneventful, thanks to Tandy's proper prior planning, but this day is still leeching the mental strength out of me, ounce by ounce. Yes, I'm dramatic. I'm aware, but I think most people—those with good parental relationships—would expect to have their parents roll out the welcome wagon. Especially after not seeing their child in close to six months. Just a thought.

This…. This is not the welcome wagon. I might as well have just walked in the door after a regular day at the Schuyler Regional Highschool, carrying a backpack stuffed with textbooks instead of my rolling carryon. Where's my hug? Where are happy tears? The offers to make my special cocoa? God, I'm whiny. I'll add my bad mood to the list of things I'm blaming on Robbie Oakes. Fair or not.

Maybe coming here was a bad idea. I'll give Dad his gift, take my parents to dinner, and head back tomorrow. I can change my flight home. I've done longer flights back to back in the past. I can handle the bounce to NYC and then the seven hours home to LAX. No big deal. Tandy would come get me, no questions asked. She'd show up with a lavender matcha latte and a bouquet and have us at the spa and booked for a facial before I could tell her I'd overreacted.

"Mom." Maybe I can get this back on track. We can go grab a coffee, or take a walk. I can at least get a hug. "It's fine. I didn't plan on staying here, anyway. I know space is limited. I just wanted to come say hi." And see with my own two eyes that Daddy is okay.

And maybe grapple with what I want next for my career. I am over thirty now.

I shush my inner voice. She's a goddamn ray of sunshine today.

Mom seems to have brightened a bit at my words. Her hands stop twisting together and she smiles as she pushes hair behind her ears. I just surprised her, that's all. She got thrown by the past, just like I did.

"Right, right, you'll stay with Robbie."

Did anyone else hear the record scratch in the deafening silence? Hold on.

"Mom," I say again, exasperation leaking into my tone. It's harsher than I intend it to be, and my mother flinches. Shames churns in my gut and I feel like an asshole. I take a deep breath. "Robbie and I are not together. I haven't seen him since high school."

"You haven't?"

I shake my head, frowning. And wince because technically it's a lie, but the spirit of the statement is true. I am not seeing Robbie. Again. I shouldn't have to explain this to my mom. She's the one who held my hair back when I cried after he left. The one who rubbed my back in soothing circles. Who brought me a pint of ice cream, my favorite spoon, and wrapped me in my favorite throw blanket, and told me it was going to be okay as she pressed a kiss to my temple.

She should—

Oh.

Oh no.

She should know better unless she found out about the airport and jumped to incorrect conclusions. The handwringing is back, Mom's brows tipped together in a frown that matches mine.

We must have been photographed.

By more than just Jack.

I knew it was a possibility, even as the blond player lifted his phone in our direction. Even as he teased about preserving memories. I knew there was a better than zero chance that other people were doing the same thing. It's not conceited, it's reality. I'm used to being photographed, especially back in Los Angeles. Robbie is too. Of course a dual celeb spotting in the tiny Genoa Airport would be big news for anyone who recognized us. I guess I hadn't thought about how quickly those images might find their way to my mother. I wonder if she has a Google alert for my name.

Or maybe I just didn't care when I was settling into the warm strength of Robbie Oakes' arms. No wonder we aren't on the same page. No wonder our talking points are slipping past each other like ships in the wind. I thought she was talking about high school. About decades ago. She's talking about just this morning. I was at the airport. Robbie was at the airport. Of course, he offered me a ride. I knew he was going to before he even opened his mouth.

I'd thought I was avoiding drama by not saying anything about him, instead I waltzed myself right into a disaster.

Mom saw a picture of my ex—the one she loves like her own kid—kissing the side of my face, his arms wrapped around my waist, and made the assumption I bet a lot of the internet is going to make.

That there's something there to talk about.