Chapter 12: Early Home

Gabe moved first.

He grabbed the crocheted afghan off the back of the couch, threw it over me, and fell off the cushions onto the floor.

"Oh no," he said. "Oh no, oh no, oh no."

"Shorts," I whispered. "Where are my shorts?"

"Your mother's in the hall!"

"I know where my mother is!"

The front door opened.

I yanked the T-shirt over my head and kicked the shorts under the couch.

I sat up with the afghan around my waist just as my mother walked into the den.

She wore a travel cardigan and sunglasses pushed up in her hair.

Behind her came Drake's father, carrying two suitcases, with his reading glasses on his forehead.

"Callie!" my mother said. "You're home! We caught the early flight, there was a weather delay in Portland, so we, oh."

She stopped.

Gabe was standing in the middle of the rug in boxers and the apron.

I was sitting on the couch in a T-shirt, with my hair wild and a blanket in my lap.

A plate of cold pancakes sat on the coffee table.

"Hi, Mom," I said.

"Hello, sweetheart."

"This is Gabe. He's a friend of Drake's."

"I remember Gabe." My mother's eyes moved slowly from the apron to the afghan and back to my face.

"From Thanksgiving. He had the shellfish allergy."

"Hi, Mrs. Crawford," Gabe said, in a voice an octave higher than usual. "I made pancakes."

"I can see that."

Footsteps pounded down the stairs.

Dean appeared in the hall in nothing but a bath towel, rubbing his head with another one.

"Hey, did somebody take my..."

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