“Thank you for saying that, Mom. He is.”
“Just don’t get ahead of yourself, okay?”
“What do you mean?” Molly placed a handful of silverware in the sink.
“It’s only been a year and a half, with a rocky patch in the middle.” She handed her daughter a pot to dry. “Just keep your wits about you. People change, especially when they’re young and have dreams.” Her mother blinked, and Molly noticed a new batch of lines around the corners of her caramel eyes, and the thick gray roots that had yet to be dyed blond. At fifty, her mother was still an attractive woman—she always had been—but Molly hadn’t noticed these signs of aging until recently.
Molly could only assume her mother was insinuating something about her father—when she made comments like that, she almost always was. And Molly’s father had been young when he left—only thirty-three. The older she’d gotten, the more Molly realized that she barely knew anything about her father, except that he’d been a writer at heart and that his dreams had been thwarted.
The next morning, Jake and Molly packed up the car and headed farther south, toward North Carolina. It had been Molly’s idea to visit Jake’s hometown, and she’d pressed when he’d resisted.
“We’ve been living together for over a year, and I still haven’t met your parents,” she’d challenged.
“You don’t want to meet my parents, Moll.” Jake had sighed. “My mom is … she’s very conservative. She doesn’t really have a lot to say. And my dad, well … I’m surprised he’s still around, to be honest.”
“Well, he is around. And that’s more than I can say about mine.”
The Danner home was roughly what Molly expected from the outside—a one-story ranch slightly smaller than her mother’s own average suburban house, but not by much. The neighborhood was green and lush and a ten-minute drive from the ocean.
Mrs. Danner greeted them in the front hall. She was a petite woman with a silver bob and dark eyes. She wore a pale yellow button-down and boxy khakis that Molly’s mother would’ve called “old lady pants”; the outfit combined with her lack of a dye job made her appear older than she probably was. She set them up in separate bedrooms—I told you she was conservative, Jake muttered under his breath—and said they should wash up for dinner.
Though it wasn’t big, there was a coldness to the house that Molly couldn’t ignore. There was little variation in color—mainly beiges and taupes—and hardly anything on the walls. It lacked the busy, lived-in feeling her own home had always evoked, despite the fact that it had only been her, her mom, and Andrew there.
After she showered, Molly put on a green sundress, combed out her hair, and swiped a coat of mascara on her lashes. By the time she made her way into the kitchen for dinner, Mr. Danner was there—he’d been napping when they arrived. He sat at the table in front of a full pint glass, and Molly was so shocked by his appearance she couldn’t speak. Even though his curls had gone gray and he was notably disheveled—red-rimmed blue eyes, unshaven, slumped posture—he was the spitting image of Jake, and Molly could see that he had once been as radiantly handsome as his son.
“Well, aren’t you a sight for sore eyes.” Mr. Danner spoke in a thick Southern accent, circling the glass in his fingers. “Jake never said how pretty you were. Not that he says much to his folks at all, these days. He didn’t even say y’all were coming until … what was it, Lorna? Friday?”
Mrs. Danner said nothing as she tossed the salad. She’d put on a different shirt and some pink lipstick, but still wore the old lady khakis.
“Easy, Pop.” Jake stepped into the room, and Molly felt her shoulders relax. “Can I help you, Mom?”
Mrs. Danner shook her head. “Fix yourselves a drink, if you’d like.” Her voice was quiet. She seemed timid as a mouse.
Dinner was a shrimp casserole cooked in cream, and it felt so heavy in Molly’s stomach that she had to force the bites down. They ate at the kitchen table—which overlooked a small patch of backyard—with the overhead light blazing and no music in the background. Conversation was minimal, too. It was mostly Jake asking his mother questions, which she answered quickly and without enthusiasm. Mr. Danner refilled his pint glass more times than Molly could count, keeping one eye glued to the small television perched on the counter. Neither of his parents asked Jake about the band.