Sweetheart [On Hold - Resuming 2023]

13. Big News

As a former rich kid, I know the following to be true: The bigger the kitchen, the less cooking done by its owner.

Take my parents for example. If you include the octagonal dining room that juts out like into the sprawling backyard, their kitchen must be close to a thousand square feet. Yet, neither Calvin nor Veronica Pierce has so much as broiled a vegetable. I'd be surprised if Calvin knows how to operate the faucet.

Rich people with body image issues, such as my parents, simply hire chefs on the rare occasion they wish to consume a homemade meal. I can count on one hand the number of family dinners we had as a family growing up. The state-of-the-art appliances went unused in favor of the low-calorie grab-and-go boxes of overpriced, premade snacks my parents kept stocked in the refrigerator.

I usually avoid this place at all costs. Perched at the spotless, ivory island on a barstool that trembles under my weight, childhood memories I'd prefer to forget rush back. I was in this exact chair when Mom informed me I needed to quit soccer because my thighs were becoming too muscular. She parked herself here for hours, researching how to rid me of food allergies, convinced that if I snacked exclusively on almonds like her, I'd lose my stubborn baby fat. Ten years ago, I witnessed one of Dad's mistresses sprawled across this very island.

Today, I'm here for a reason. Mom texted me late last night that she has an update on Stella's case. I was zonked out, comatose from that kiss with Asher, and received her message this morning. I immediately drove to my parents' house, swinging by Starbucks to purchase a venti black coffee at Mom's request. The bribe sits before her on the island, leaking condensation.

"So," I prompt.

"How are you, darling?" Mom asks, exaggerating the first syllable of 'darling.' She leans across the sparkling counter, manilla folders squeezed tightly against her chest. Her blonde ponytail spills over her shoulder, barely missing the iced breakfast blend.

She's wearing a sports bra and athletic leggings, either because she has Pilates tonight or because she wants to remind me that fitness is of tip-top importance to the Pierce family. Like most movie stars, my mother has never been particularly subtle.

Neither of us cares how I'm doing. "Fine. What did—" I start.

"Jessica sent me some items from her new athleisure line," she interrupts, gesturing up and down her hourglass figure. "She might have your size, you know."

I have no idea which Jessica she's talking about, and to be honest, I don't care. I wasted years trying to abide by my parents' ridiculous fitness standards and sculpt my body to their preferences. At some point after leaving for college, I ran out of emotional capacity to dwell on her comments for more than a couple seconds.

"Wonderful," I deadpan. "What's new with Stella?"

"I'm getting there, Melody," she sighs.

I sigh back, but I don't push. Talking about Stella is agonizing for my mom. She might be a cold-hearted body-shamer, but she's still a mother. No parent can chat about their missing child like they're any other topic on the news.