Bee watched Ryan and David drive off into the night, and stepped close to me, our arms brushing. “Your life got weird,” she said after a long pause, and I thought of Alexander, of everything that might be coming.

“And getting weirder.”

Chapter 7

Chapter 7

BEE WAS GONE when I woke up in the morning. A note left on my dresser said she’d walked home. Since her house was only a couple of blocks from mine, it wasn’t all that weird, but I still wished she’d hung around a little longer. It was like I needed to convince myself that she was okay. But I reminded myself that she definitely needed some Parental Time, and probably wanted to sleep in her own bed.

Mom was already up and making breakfast when I went downstairs, which was surprising. It was Sunday, which meant we went to the earlier church service, then out for breakfast afterward.

“Eggs?” she asked, gesturing to the pan on the stove.

The sight of them made me a little queasy; I’d never been a big breakfast person. So I shook my head and grabbed an apple from the fruit bowl on the counter. “No, thanks.”

Maybe it was my imagination, but I could have sworn Mom looked a little disappointed. Tucking her hair—dark like mine, but cut shorter—behind her ear, she turned back to the stove. “Okay. I could also make bacon? Ooh!” She set the spatula down on the trivet I’d made her at summer camp years ago. It was supposed to look like a frog, but something had happened in the kiln to turn it into more of a dark green amoeba. “How about pancakes?”

I glanced at the clock, then back at Mom, still in her robe. “Don’t we have church?”

She gave a little shrug, turning back to the stove. “I thought we might skip this Sunday. Spend some family time.”

With that, Mom turned back to the stove. The eggs had started to smoke a little, and she heaved a sigh as she scraped them around the skillet.

I frowned. Bad enough that things were weird with David right now. I wasn’t sure I could handle family problems on top of that. Maybe Mom wanted us to hang out because she needed to tell me she and Dad were separating, or she was sick, or...

I stood up, putting the apple back in the bowl. “Mom, is everything all right?”

She glanced over her shoulder at me. “As far as I know. Why?

The eggs were completely burned now, and Mom made a faint “tsking” sound as she moved the pan off the eye of the stove. My mom was traditional in so many ways—in the Junior League, taught Sunday school, wore makeup even if she was just staying home all day—but she was not the best cook.