My anxiety is spiraling the closer we get to Cole’s parents’ house. I’ve second- and third-guessed myself about this plan all morning and have arrived at the conclusion that I must be out of my mind.

I’m going to see Lawrence and Casey Beck when Cole goes back to California. Won’t that be awkward? “Hi, yes, I’m the girl your son fiddled around with when he was in town. Don’t mind me. Would you like to cut in line?”

Oof.

“Mom?”

I glance at my son. “What?”

“No offense, but if you’re having to remind me as we’re pulling in the driveway to use my manners, it’s probably a lost cause.”

He flashes me the cheesiest grin, which zaps me back to center. Thank God for this kid.

“That might be true,” I say, slowly pressing the brakes on the gravel road. “But I’m your mom. It’s my job to remind you.”

“Cool. Then, as your son, it’s my job to remind you to be happy about this.”

“Why wouldn’t I be happy?”

He rolls his big green eyes. “I have no idea, but you look like you just sucked on a lemon.”

Do I? I quickly inventory my face and realize . . . I do. I must look constipated. My brows are furrowed, my lips pressed into a thin, tight line as I consider every possible thing that might go wrong today.

“When is the last time we were invited anywhere to dinner?” Ethan asks. “Besides Val’s, but does that really count when she just brings home leftovers from Fletcher’s and we eat on top of the morgue?”

“It’s not a morgue. It’s a funeral home.” I glance at him and grin. “But point taken.”

“See? It’s fun to do something different for a change. Not that I don’t like it being just the two of us, because I do, but it feels happy. Right?”

My stomach clenches. I try to shake it off. “Right. But remember that—”

“I know. I’m the one that explained it to you, remember?”

I flip on my turn signal and pull into the driveway of the Becks’ home. “How did you get so mature?”

“Well, it wasn’t from you or Val. Or Dad.” He scrunches up his face. “Actually, I don’t know. Good question.”

I’m laughing as I park the car, which is a step in the right direction. It allows me to ignore the sudden urge to pull back out, probably spin the tires because it’s gravel, and then drive as quickly as I can back home.

Ethan and I climb out of the car. A giant yellow dog races across the front lawn, its tongue hanging out the side of its mouth, and makes a beeline for my son.

“Ethan! Be careful,” I call out just as the dog leaps the last few feet and crashes into him.