“I’ll be right back, just paying for lunch.”
She nodded and worked on finishing her salad as I walked up to the pay window. I paid for both meals and left some cash in the tip jar before heading back to the booth. When I got there, I saw her lifting her laptop and looking around like she lost something.
“Everything okay?” I asked.
“Yeah, I just lost the receipt,” she said. “It’s fine, I am sure they can make another one.”
“I already took care of it.”
“What?” she asked, seeming confused for a moment and then blushing. “You didn’t have to do that.”
“It was my pleasure.”
“No, seriously, you didn’t need to do that,” she said, opening her purse. “How much was it again? Twelve dollars? I can pay you back.”
I held my hand up to stop her and shook my head.
“No, put your purse back down,” I said. “I got it because I wanted to give you something to smile about today.”
She smiled and sat her purse down, and I thought I saw her eyes watering just a little at the edges.
“Thank you.”
“Not a problem,” I said. “Seriously. I have to look out for my best friend’s sister.”
She smiled again, but it was different that time. I regretted saying that last bit, bringing Nick back into things. I didn’t want her to think I was taking pity on her because of her brother, or that I only paid attention to her because of our friendship. The truth was, I wanted to take care of her, period. Something was drawing me to her, and I wanted to put that smile back on her face by any means I could, and if buying her lunch would do it, then that’s what I would do.
“Well, thank you,” she said. “It’s very sweet of you.”
I nodded. “Alright,” I said. “I have to get back to the bar. But my invitation for you to come hang out there wasn’t limited to just last night. You come back whenever, and I’ll look forward to seeing you there.”
“I appreciate that. Once I no longer feel like a giant is squeezing my head, I might pick another night to come out. You said the theme nights are every Saturday?”
“Yes,” I said. “But I’m always there.”
I smiled, and she returned it.
“I’ll remember that,” she said.
I nodded and stood up, heading out and back out to the bar with a wave.
6
Becca
“Did you rinse those potatoes before you cooked them?” Mom asked, peering over my shoulder at the potatoes I was trying to pour into a strainer.
“Yes, Mom,” I said. “Just like you taught me to. Twice.”
“Are you sure? Because they look like they still have a lot of starch on them. You have to be careful when you’re cooking mashed potatoes to soak the potato slices and rinse them before they go into the pot or they will have too much starch on them and be gummy,” she said.
“I know, Mom,” I said.
“Maybe you didn’t soak them for long enough. There’s nothing worse than gummy mashed potatoes,” she said.
“Absolutely,” I said under my breath. “Nothing worse in this entire world than having mashed potatoes that aren’t at the ideal texture.”
“Excuse me?” Mom asked.
I shook my head. “Nothing. I just wanted to know how you can tell they’re starchy. They don’t look any different than any other time they are made.”
“I can tell. When you’ve made mashed potatoes for as long as I have, you can tell,” she said.
It was said with the same sort of mystical ambiguity I imagined people involved in religious cults used when talking about their rituals.
“They were rinsed,” I said, hoping it concluded the Great Potato Conversation.
I shook the strainer to get the last of the water off the slices, then dumped them back into the pot to mash them.
“Butter first,” Mom said quickly.
I bit back a sarcastic comment.
Instead, I nodded and dumped the cubes of butter into the pot so they could start melting. I reached for the potato masher, but Mom snatched it out of the antique porcelain crock that held utensils at the back of the counter and handed it to me. Something about that gesture made me bristle.
I knew from the beginning coming back home might be challenging. I couldn’t really imagine it was easy for anyone who went out on their own and had their own life to move back in with their parents. Especially if those parents were anything like mine. But I’d hoped I would at least get a little bit of a buffer. I hoped Mom would give me a bit of space to breathe before clamping down on me.
Instead, it turned out to be the opposite. It was like she had collected all her worry, nagging, and hovering from all the time I was away from home and kept it balled up ready to dump it all out on me as soon as I got back.