I nodded. “Well, of course.”

“And it didn’t feel entirely good?”

I shook my head.

“Sometimes those are the things that mean the most. When we share or give something that is actually hard to part with but do it anyway.”

I sighed into my chest and mumbled something about him being right.

“Sounds like you might have gotten something in return, though.”

“What’s that?”

“A friend,” he said.

Chapter Seven

Good as Gravy

I collapse face-first next to Cheese on the couch, pressing my cheek into his fuzzy belly. He lets out a loud purr, so I give him a good scratch under his chin.

“You sure you don’t want to go to Dad’s with me?” I ask.

His only response is to paw at my ponytail.

“I’ll take that as a no.”

I think Cheese’s disinterest in staying with me at Dad’s might just be the worst part of this whole deal. Mom says I’m too young to be a cat lady, but I think it’s too late.

Mom sweeps past me as she slips into a pair of wedges and drops a pile of mail on the counter. “Give this to your father, would you? It’s his mail. I promised I’d bring it by before I left for book club, but I completely forgot.”

I moan.

She gives me a quick kiss on the forehead, and Cheese swats at her nose.

“Don’t forget his mail. There’s some important stuff in there. And he’s no good at keeping up with papers, anyway.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Sweet Pea,” she pauses, waiting for me to look at her.

I sit up and yawn without covering my mouth.

“I know it’s been a week full of changes, but I think if we can just get in the swing of this routine, we’ll be good as gravy.”

I puff out a held breath, blowing my bangs up. It’s not that I want my parents to fight and bicker all the time like normal divorced parents, but something about the way they’re trying to pretend like nothing has changed makes all of this so much harder. It was never my stupid carpet or my bedspread or my wallpaper that made our house a home. It was us. The three of us plus Cheese.

Nothing about this is as good as gravy.

“Right?” Mom asks.

And I realize she’s been waiting this whole time for me to respond. “Right as rain,” I mumble.

“How do I look?” she asks, motioning down to her cream sundress and shawl.

“It’s just book club. It’s not like you’re going anywhere special.”

The edges of her lips turn down.

“But you look great,” I tell her quickly, guilt settling over me. “Really pretty.”

“Well, I am meeting a friend afterward for some margaritas and chips and salsa.”

“What friend?” I ask. Suddenly something feels weird.

She winks at me. “Call me if you need me, and leave the porch light on when you head over to Dad’s.”