❝Maybe there's a whole bunch of impossible people waiting for me out there. Waiting to make me feel that same uncertainty again and again.❞
Allison Romero has never had any luck when it comes to finding love, or maintaining friends...or just about...
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19: CHAPTER NINETEEN
IT'S time.
I roll my suitcase up the driveway covered with a light dusting of snow. I've been standing outside my house for at least twenty minutes but haven't gathered the courage to knock on the door. Instead, I've repeatedly tried to waste time by wandering around the neighbourhood and pulling on a white coat I've shoved inside my suitcase.
It's currently eight thirty in the morning. I arrived here in Minnesota two hours ago but the drive here took quite a while as was finding a taxi. Not to mention, I've already walked around the neighbourhood three times in a futile attempt of wasting time.
My shoulders deflate and I puff out a deep breath, watching as a cloud of air escapes my trembling lips. Finally, I start to lumber over towards the front door. My suitcase is situated next to me and I keep one hand on the handle and the other one on the doorbell.
Here goes.
I press my finger down on the dusty doorbell. Nothing. I wait for a few minutes, bouncing around on my feet to keep myself warm. When I contemplate turning around and leaving, the door swings open to reveal my fretful mother. Her brown hair is pulled up into a bun and the wrinkles in her forehead deepen as she spots me standing on the porch with a timid smile on my face. "Oh, Allison! Is that you?" She furrows her thin brows together.
I let a little smile slip onto my lips. "Hey, Mom," I murmur.
She pulls me into a hug and I bury my face in her shoulder, holding back tears. She smells like home. God, I've missed her. No matter how much I delude myself into thinking I'm better off without them, I cannot for the life of me seem to control the feeling of deeply missing my mother.
"Come in, you must be so tired." My mother ushers me inside and my nose is flooded with the familiar smell of the dusty carpet and the roaring fireplace.
"Go on to your room," my mother instructs as I crouch down to take off my sneakers.
She starts to walk away. "Mom," I call out and stop her on her way to the kitchen.
My mother pauses in her spot, tightly gripping a towel in her hand, and then swings to face me with a bright smile that seems a little too forced. "What is it, dear?"
"Is father..." I pause, feeling breathless and tense all over. "Is he home?"
Her smile slowly vanishes and she blinks. "I believe he isn't," she responds to me, her voice detached of emotion. I cannot even begin to describe the sense of relief that washed over me, and my mother must've noticed because she smiles just a little. "I made your favourite."
