Page 94 of The Burbs and the Bees
“Thanks for today,” he says, his dark eyes zeroing in on me and lingering a moment.
“What happened today?” my father asks.
Before I can explain, Jay walks to the back door and disappears outside. I call out after him, “Thanks for the pizza.”
The door slams shut, and I nearly jump out of my skin. Maybe I should go after him. Obviously, we need to talk. I’m in love with a man who just called me a friend, whom I called a friend because I wanted him to correct me, to tell me we were more.
But what if I’m wrong?
What if I’m nothing more to him? But I have to be. Everything in his touch told me I was. Maybe he just needs to hear it first. He was hurt by Juanita. She was a city girl, like me. Maybe he’s afraid of admitting his feelings because he’s afraid of me bailing, too. God, we really need to talk. Like yesterday.
My father pulls out a chair. “Marie, why don’t you put on a pot of tea while I talk to Alyson and find out what she’s been up to?”
Mom reaches for the kettle, and I slowly lower myself into my chair. Lord, I hate it, hate the way my dad is looking at me, like he expects me to cave and beg to come back home. I square my shoulders and lift my chin a little higher.
“I love it here. I want to stay,” I say.
He gives a slow nod of his head, disbelief swimming in his eyes. “Really now?”
I press my hands to the table, flatten them. “Yes, really.”
“For another week or for good?” he asks.
“For good.”
Mom crosses the room, her lips twisted. “Honey, no, you can’t move here. It’s too far away, and there’s nothing here for you.”
I hope she’s wrong about that. I hope Jay and his family are here for me.
“I love it here, Mom.”
“Alyson,” my dad begins. “Give up this charade. Come home.”
A hot stab of anger pierces my heart. “It’s not a charade. I’m happy here.” God, I hate that he doesn’t believe me or believe in me. The only man in my entire life who had faith in me just walked out my back door. I need to fix things with him, but with my parents here, I can’t jus
t run after him and blurt out my feelings.
“You’re doing this to claim your inheritance; go ahead and admit it.”
“Richard, leave the poor girl alone. Alyson, come back. You can do volunteer work with me.”
I press my fingers to my temples, a headache brewing. “Mom, please.”
“Are you not well?” she asks. “You’re awfully pale.”
“I’m fine.”
“We got the hospital bill,” Dad states, like the white sheet of paper was my surrender flag.
“I had a fall. I’m fine.”
Mom stares at me for a moment and then says, “I’ll make some hot cocoa.”
“I don’t want hot cocoa.”
Mom searches my cupboard for cocoa, but I don’t have any. “Your cupboards are bare, honey.”
“I have enough to get by.” My father is watching me carefully. “What?” I ask.
