Love, Utley (Love Letters #1)

SIX

HANNAH

I use my hip to shut the car door since my hands are full of drinks, then make my way around the back bumper to the little brick walkway leading to the front of my house.

It’d be nice to park in the garage, but Mom’s car takes up the one and only spot. Which I’ve insisted on since I’d feel like a real asshole making her scrape snow off her windshield in the winter.

Having a two-car garage would be glorious, but this cozy little hundred-year-old house has been our home for the last decade, and that’s not changing anytime soon.

I shift the drink carrier into one hand and use the other to unlock the front door.

The entryway is really just a space big enough to pile shoes under the bench and hang coats on the hooks above it. Then the house opens into a living room on the right and a dining room on the left, which leads into a small but well-loved kitchen.

Open concepts were not all the rage back when this bad boy was designed.

I set the drinks on the bench and tug my ankle boots off, then peel my suit jacket from my body. It’s a warm July day outside, but most of my current sweaty situation is due to stress.

Voices come from the kitchen, so I pick the drinks back up and head that way.

There are days I wish I lived alone. And on the drive home, I was feeling like today was one of those days. But now that I’m here, I’m glad I don’t.

When I step through the archway into the kitchen, Mom and Chelsea stop talking and look up. Both wrist deep in red sauce, cheese, and noodles.

“Nothing says summer like baking a lasagna.” I laugh.

“We can always freeze it if you have something better in mind.” Mom gives me a look of innocence, knowing damn well it’s one of my favorite meals.

“You wouldn’t dare.” I narrow my eyes.

Mom grins. “We all know pasta is worth the sacrifice of a few degrees.”

“True,” I agree, even though the kitchen will jump a solid fifteen degrees with the oven going. “Well, get to layering so you guys can join me in a predinner drink.”

“Frozen hot chocolate with whipped marshmallow?” our resident twelve-year-old asks.

“Duh,” I reply.

There’s a small island on wheels in the center of the room, which is where the assembly is taking place, and I set the carrier down on the corner, hopefully out of the splash zone.

Mom eyes them. “That an iced chai for me?”

I prop a hand on my hip. “I’m about to get offended by these questions.”

I pick up the third beverage and take a drink of my iced matcha latte.

“So,” Mom starts, “getting us all BeanBag Coffee on the way home means that the interview either went really well or…”

I take another pull of the frothy goodness while I decide how to answer.

“Uh-oh.” Chelsea makes a face at Mom as she lays another wide strip of pasta in the pan.

“It was fine,” I say before they can start with their theories. “I still have my job. Nothing is changing.”

“And you’re not happy about that because…?” Mom raises a brow at me.

If I could, I would play it all off. I’d tell them nothing. Pretend nothing was amiss. And go on with life as usual.

But I’m not good at pretending. I can fake it for an interview. Or a brief interaction. But I can’t pull it off long term. And I’d rather be honest now than have it all come out later.