Page 130 of Go Back to December

Mom won’t let go of my hand. “We respect your boundaries, sweetie. But we’re respectfully invading them.” She looks over my shoulder. “Because all you appear to have here is far too much space.”

Craig grunts in agreement.

“Mom—”

“No, Melody, I’m putting my foot down about this.” She finally releases my hands. “We’re here to spend time with you. We’re forcing it on you because you’ll never ask for it. You never ask us for anything.”

“Because I can take care of myself.”

“Yeah, but you don’t. You’re too busy looking after other people,” Craig says.

Mom nods. “Like the boy you protected at the train station.”

It does something strange to my heart to have Mom say it. For her to understand that was exactly what happened. I was protecting Baz.

And he was protecting me.

That’s why he didn’t tell me about the café study. Or the building sale.

He didn’t want to shape something until he knew it wouldn’t break.

Mom tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. “Your took care of your dad too. Don’t for a second think I ever forget that.”

I’m past wrestling back the tears, and two sets of arms come around me.

When we’ve wiped our faces with the rest of the paper towel roll, I ask if anyone wants some water.

“I was hoping for something harder,” Craig complains. “And food. I’m starving.”

“So is Ira.” Mom looks up from her phone. “He booked us a table for lunch. And afterward, we can show you the house.”

Craig and I exchange a pained glance.

“How much of next week will I have to carve out for an examination of interior design?”

“Smart-asses,” Mom grumbles.

“Well, if Ira buys lunch today, breakfast is on me tomorrow,” I offer.

“Deal. Now, I want to hear all about Baz.” Mom’s trying to play cool, but she can’t contain her excited grip on my arm. She’s delighted with my fake relationship.

Recalling the frost in Baz’s stare, I wince. I owe him an explanation.

One that will have to wait until the morning.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Iwork with a staff of superhumans.

They all show up at the café on Monday, fully committed to getting on with things. The front of the house sparkles, and the kitchen sizzles as they turn out the sweet and spiced dishes of our eclectic menu.

We had a brief meeting, so Amal and I could repeat what we sent in our note, but it’s clear they’ve already decided among themselves that they will press on, like any other day. They hustle to prep orders, turn the tables. I suspect that for most, uncertainty about the future of the café is far from the worst thing they’ve experienced.

But it does little to quell my guilt about failing them.

When Mom, Ira, and Craig arrive shortly after seven, everyone comes out to meet my family. It’s quiet—many Money Honeys are still on their holiday vacations—so I give them a tour of the kitchen and slide them into one of our best tables.

They dig into their eggs and breakfast banh mi and Mom tells me how much she loves the hot milk with her coffee. When I get her a refill, I return my attention to surveilling the front door, waiting for Baz to walk through it.