The Truth About That Summer

sixty-seven

I always liked the Henson's house. It's big and spacious and Mrs. Henson has a chic sense of style. But it still felt lived in, Luke's baseball trophies and Laura's litany of strappy shoes lining the halls. I often wondered why Mrs. Henson opted for more spaces to keep clean and organized, though, when it was just Laura and Luke.

Now, I see that they might be grateful for the extra room. What can only be Finn's toys are littered across the floor of the living room and what used to be their den is now a playroom, a small bed just big enough for his little body against the wall.

We pass it in silence, on our way to their large eat-in kitchen. Fit to make a chef jealous, stainless steel appliances glimmer in the light of the over-sink window. Luke slides a stool out for me at the granite island and I take it quietly.

"Are you nervous or something?" Luke murmurs, a hint of amusement in his tone, as he settles in beside me. Despite the teasing, he places his hand over mine to calm my twiddling fingers.

"No," I lie instantly, thinking about how Luke must feel every time he sees my mom's face. "A little." I admit.

His hand squeezes mine. "It'll be-"

"Oh, Luke!" Mrs. Henson's voice, as cheery as it always has been, turns the corner. Her petite frame and shiny blonde hair accompany it. "And Dylan!"

Before I can speak, she's approached us and enveloped us both in a swift embrace. When she pulls back, she looks me up and down, appraising me slowly. Heat floods my cheeks as I rack my brain for something to say. All my social skills dissipate, replaced with unhelpful anxieties instead.

Shit, Dylan. Just say hello, it's not that difficult!

But instead of calling me out for how awfully I've treated her son or maybe even worse, being passive-aggressive about it, Mrs. Henson just smiles.

"You sure have grown up, little lady." Her easy grin, the roundness of her cheeks and the scrunch of her nose, eases the tension somewhat.

"It's good to see you, Mrs. Henson."

Luke settles into his stool again and I do the same, watching as Mrs. Henson opens the refrigerator.

"Oh, Dylan, please. I've known you since you were this big," She gestures to knee height before holding out a beer. "Call me Talia. Want one? They're nice and cold, I promise."

I take one, even though I don't really enjoy the hoppy taste of IPAs, because I'm afraid saying no will crack the thin ice I must be on.

As I sip, Talia looks me over again. Finally, once I'm almost uncomfortable with her gaze on me, she reaches over to touch my arm.

"How are you doing, honey?" Her eyes, the same hazel-green color as Luke's, pierce right through me.

My breath hitches in my throat. I've always liked her. When I was eleven and got my first period at the town pool, she was the one to wrap a towel around my waist and bring me into the ladies room. After calling my mom, she taught me to use a tampon. And it never felt awkward, despite how mortified I was to be bleeding down there. I remember being glad I was with Luke's mom, and not my own. I thought Mom would've made too big a scene.

But this isn't getting my first period and the answers aren't so simple as a spare tampon.

"I'm good," I say instead, stretching my arms out before me and trying for easy conversation, "Starting to recognize myself again now that I'm finally building up my tan."