Role Playing(3)

Maggie wanted to scream. Deb meant well, honestly. She was a raging extrovert, and she was convinced that she could solve problems with a casserole brigade and a metric ton of sunshine. The problem was Maggie was not the type to make friends. She knew she was isolated. She had been since childhood, growing up in her grandparents’ house. She’d certainly been isolated in her marriage, for a variety of reasons.

Quite frankly, she took care of herself. Anyone who told her it wasn’t healthy wasn’t anyone she wanted to hang out with.

She moved more quickly, afraid Deb might do something rash, like invite her to lunch. She loaded up her cart haphazardly, adding a case of replacement tuna, boxes of mac and cheese, frozen vegetables, diet soda. A bag of clementines, a nod to health that was quickly negated when she added a few tubs of Chocolate Brownie Thunder ice cream. Then she fled.

There was no way in hell she was going to that book club. If she played her cards right, she might not leave the house until after Halloween. That was, what, three weeks away? She could definitely make it that long. Hell, maybe she’d see if she could order some staples to be delivered, price be damned . . . although she lived far enough away that grocery delivery likely wasn’t an option.

She’d just avoid Deb. Avoid going outside. Keep her head down, do her work, text Kit and Mac. Pay her bills.

And it would all be fine.





CHAPTER 2


HEROIC SAFE MODE


“Aiden Stephen Bishop, are you even listening to me?”

Aiden winced as his mother middle-named him. “Sorry, Ma,” he said quickly.

“You picked up the wrong kind of bran flakes,” she sniped as she unloaded the groceries he was depositing on her worn Formica kitchen counters. She’d stopped dying her hair the past year, and it was now worn in a short, serviceable gray haircut that was getting a little shaggy. He’d have to remember to ask if she wanted to schedule going down to the salon. “And canola oil? I wanted vegetable oil!”

He fought against a sigh, then plastered a smile on his face. “Sorry,” he repeated.

In my defense, you just wrote “oil,” and they’re basically the same thing.

“This is why I should have gone with you,” she said, conveniently ignoring the fact that she’d been exhausted when he had offered to take her. She huffed impatiently, putting away some apples and bananas. He hoped she’d actually eat them this time, rather than let them go bad. She was still grumbling when she went off to the bathroom.

While she was out of the room, he rushed to store the rest of the groceries he’d brought in from his truck. He’d discovered that she still tried to put things up on the top shelves, which lately had become a recipe for disaster. Partially because she’d wear her house slippers on the step stool, which . . . well, often made her slip. And the longer she raised her hands over her head, the more likely she was to get dizzy and pass out. She’d already fallen twice this year, one time resulting in cutting her forehead and bleeding badly. He wanted to prevent that if he could.

When he had finally gotten all the food in its respective and easily accessible spots, he glanced around, making sure that he hadn’t missed anything. His mother’s kitchen was the kitchen he grew up in, and it hadn’t changed much. The linoleum floor was worn, especially under the dragging feet of the kitchen table. The counters were meticulously scrubbed clean, faded in specific circles to the right of the stove top and the left of the sink. The fridge was new—he’d bought it a year ago, not long after his father died. He opened up the door, doing a spot check. Sure enough, there was what looked like a cucumber that had gone squishy. Grimacing, he tossed it in the trash . . . then took the trash outside for good measure.

He hadn’t regretted moving home to Fool’s Falls when his dad fell ill two years ago. He’d owned a damned hospice business when he lived in Seattle, and he’d been a nurse for years before that . . . he had more than enough experience to do whatever was needed. No matter how his father might’ve felt about Aiden’s career, they’d gotten a bit closer that last year. Or at least, they’d come to some kind of peace.

Alas, the same could not be said of his mother. Before going back in the house, he pulled out his phone, shooting a quick text to his best friend and ex–business partner, Malcolm.

AIDEN: Fifty years old and I’m still being treated like I’m fifteen. Remind me again why I’m still here in the Falls?

MALCOLM: Because you’re a good son. Possibly too good. She driving you up a wall again?

AIDEN: Only always.

MALCOLM: You got this. We still on for Thursday? This week’s been brutal, and I could use a little online time to blow off steam.

AIDEN: Yeah. Was thinking the Castle Run?

MALCOLM: That’s a good one. Let’s hope everybody’s up for it.

Aiden grinned at the phone. Sometimes he thought if it weren’t for his online gaming guild, he’d lose his mind.

He came back into his mother’s house to start dinner. “I was thinking of making black-and-blue salad this week,” he said, keeping his voice upbeat. “What do you think? Grilled steak, and I picked up some salad and blue cheese.”

“Steak’s expensive,” she scolded.

“It was on sale.” Actually, it wasn’t, but he’d paid for it. She didn’t need to know that.