Page 29 of The Marine's Homecoming

"You look tired," she says, and it's not the judgmental tone she normally uses. But I'm not being lulled into the safety of confession. If I tell her why I'm looking so tired, it'll be everywhere by tomorrow morning.

"I'm fine, Mom."

"Mmhmm." She adjusts her salon cape and keeps her eyes on my reflection. "You're running on fumes, sweetheart. I can see it around your eyes."

"I'm fine, please don’t do this." So far, our salon visit has been fine. I've mostly been able to put out of my head the constant swirl of anxious tension under the surface. I was hoping to keepher nosiness to a minimum, but it appears I'm not getting what I hoped for.

"Hannah Marie, I have been looking at your face for twenty-seven years. I know when something is bothering you. Why aren't you talking to me?"

I let out a breath and stare at the row of shampoo bottles on the counter. She's right. Every time I close my eyes, my brain cycles through the same loop of panic and indecision that's been eating me alive since I saw those two lines on the test. And when I do manage to fall asleep, I dream about Luke finding out about the baby and being upset with me.

I fold my hands together under the salon cape and look anywhere but at my mother. If I tell her about the baby, she'll not only insist on knowing who the father is, but she'll make a fuss over it and tell all her gossip buddies. I hate that this is my life, but it's better if I don't rely on comfort and encouragement from my mother right now. I have to figure out what’s best for me first before I bring her into this.

"Is it the festival?" she asks, folding her hands in her lap. Her stylist has stepped away to mix more color, and it's just us now. But I’m still not budging. The sting of shame feels too hot to open up.

"Partly."

"And the rest?"

I glance at her reflection. My mother has always been better at listening than most people are at talking. She leaves the door open and waits to see if you walk through it. The problem is it doesn't stop with her.

"I just feel like everything is piling up and I'm drowning under all of it." My white lie isn't entirely false. That is how I feel.

She hums softly and tips her head to one side, careful with the foils. "You've always done that. Taken on more than your share and then been surprised when it gets heavy."

"It just sort of happened, Mom."

"Things just happen to you, huh? You reach for them with both hands and then act like they fell out of the sky."

I want to be mad at her but she's not wrong. Every stressor I'm carrying now is a result of my making choices that bring consequences into my life that I'm not fully equipped to handle. I did this to myself, so I can't act like I'm shocked that it's difficult.

"I feel like I'm losing control of things," I tell her, and it's the realest thing I can say. "Like I had a plan and now the plan is falling apart." I won't tell her that it’s the festival when it isn't. That would be more than a white lie. But I won't tell her it's my whole life plan, either. She'll worry that I'm suicidal or something when I'm not. I'm just sad and fearful about my future.

My mother leans across the gap between our chairs and puts her hand on my arm. "You listen to me," she says quietly. "You are allowed to let the people who care about you help carry it. You hear me? You are allowed."

"I just keep thinking I should be able to handle it."

"I know you do." She squeezes my arm. "That's exactly why I'm telling you to stop. You need to let others in, Hannah. You’re not a one-man wonder. You're part of a community and these people love you. You're Bandon's golden girl, don’t you know that?"

I blink hard and look down at my lap. The tears are right there, burning the backs of my eyes, and I focus on the weave of the salon cape, blinking my eyes rapidly until the need to cry passes. Mom settles back in her chair and changes the subject, talking about Mrs. Finnegan's knee surgery. She must realize I'm emotional and wants to spare me from the embarrassment of breaking down in public. But I know this conversation will circle back and I'm not sure what to say when it does.

The truth is right there in my throat, lodged behind the lump I keep swallowing down.I'm pregnant, Mom. I'm pregnant with Luke Maddox's baby and I'm scared.But opening up seems scarier than just swallowing it down a little longer and keeping it to myself.

When both our stylists finish, we stand and she pulls me into a hug that catches me off guard. Her arms are strong and I press my face into her shoulder. Mom isn't usually the type to offer physical displays of affection, especially not in public, but I’m not shying away from it. I miss her comfort, and being a grownup is hard enough without tough situations like the one I'm going through.

"Stop trying to carry it all alone," she murmurs, "whatever it is."

I pull back and give her the best smile I can manage. "I'll try. Thank you, Mom."

She studies me for a second, her eyes tracing my face, and then she lets me go. She says her goodbyes and turns toward the counter to pay, and I slip out before I break down crying again, thankful for mothers who foot the bill for mother-daughter salon days.

The bell above the salon door chimes as I step out into the bright May afternoon. The air is warm and salty and I take a deep breath, trying to settle my nerves. I got really close to opening up about this baby because carrying it alone is too much for me. But If I'm going to tell anyone, it really should be Luke, not my mom. Imagine him hearing from someone in town and not me. If that happened, he'd never forgive me.

I turn toward my car a block up the street and I pass by the town council office, where Calvin Dorsey is leaning on the hood of his Mercedes with his arms crossed. It’s the first time I've seen him not wearing a suit jacket. It's too hot, which explains why he's got it draped over his arm.

"Hannah, just the person I was hoping to catch." He pushes off the car and straightens his tie. Navy blue today, with a silver tie pin that catches the sunlight.

"Mr. Dorsey." I hitch my bag higher on my shoulder and blink against the sun, shading my eyes as I look up at him. I'd rather not do this right now, but I won't be rude.