|03| Goodbyes Suck

I stared down at the fluffy white substance on my plate. It stared back, equally confused. Was it rice… or rice cake? With Mum, it could honestly be either. This was the same woman who once cooked macaroni with milk instead of macaroni and cheese and served it with confidence.

Her heart was in the right place. Her recipes were not.

“You look like you just swallowed spit,” Mickey said, grinning from across the table. My ten-year-old brother existed solely to humble me.

“Breaking news,” I replied, poking the food with my fork. “Spit lives in the mouth, dumbo.”

Beck snorted. “I just high-fived you in my head.”

Mum paused mid-chew. “Don’t you like it?”

I scooped a forkful into my mouth and forced a smile. “It tastes exactly like I remember.”

Dad had cooked it better. Much better. But I still gave her a thumbs-up. I couldn’t bring myself to tell her it tasted like sadness and boiled regret. She was trying so hard to be both parents at once.

When my older brother left for college, she’d taken extra shifts just to keep us afloat.

“Here, have some more,” she said, serving me another mountain from the porcelain bowl.

I twitched but smiled politely.

Beck cleared her throat. “This is amazing, Mrs. McDermott. Could I take some home later? I can’t let my family miss out on this experience.”

I shot her a grateful look.

Mum blushed and focused on her plate. Mickey frowned at us like a disappointed old man.

“You two should be more honest,” he said. “You’re terrible role models.”

“No one asked for your opinion,” Beck fired back.

Mickey turned to Mum. “All I’m saying is, you can do better. Why didn’t we eat out like we always do? I like the pasta and bro-bro at Gina’s.”

“It’s pasta and broccoli,” I corrected.

“Whatever helps you sleep at night.”

Mum stopped eating.

She set her cutlery down carefully.

“Mickey,” she said calmly, which was never a good sign, “this is Lisa’s last night here. I’d appreciate it if you stopped acting silly. And if you like Gina’s so much, you’re welcome to place the order yourself.”

She wiped her lips with her napkin. “I’ve had my fill.”

Then she left the table.

I turned slowly to Mickey, who continued eating like he hadn’t just emotionally nuked dinner.

“What?” he asked, shrugging.

Beck shook her head. “Mickey Mouse, thanks a lot for ruining dinner.”

“Don’t call me that, bear,” he said smugly. “And don’t pretend you weren’t thinking the same thing.”

I hated that he was right.

“Oh, and Lisa,” he added casually.

“Yes?” I asked, lifting my glass of water.

“I found this on the floor.”

He pulled out an envelope.

My envelope.

Heat rushed to my face as I jumped up and snatched it from his hand. “You read it?” I shrieked.

He grinned. “You are the calm to my anger. Your cherry lips remind me of freshly blossomed roses. Andy, oh Andy, I really like you,” he sang dramatically.

I died. Right there. On the dining room floor.

Okay, maybe letters were a terrible idea.

I lunged at him and slapped a hand over his mouth. Beck bit her lip, fighting laughter. I would’ve laughed too if I wasn’t the victim.

“How can an eight-year-old be this evil?” I groaned.

My life officially sucked.

And Spain could not come fast enough.

“Lisa and Andy, sitting on a tree…”

Even in my dreams, Mickey’s voice found me.

I groaned and rolled to the foot of my bed, wrapping my pale duvet around myself like a cocoon. Sleep refused to cooperate. In less than twelve hours, I’d be on a plane to Spain, and that thought alone sent nervous excitement buzzing through me. Unfortunately, hunger and heartbreak were buzzing louder.

How did people survive this feeling?

Andy mattered. More than I wanted to admit. But the sharp ache in my chest had less to do with him and more to do with rejection. I replayed everything, wondering what I could’ve done differently. Maybe if I’d serenaded him. Maybe if I’d written more letters. Maybe if I’d been… someone else. My thoughts taunted me.

I shook my head and stared up at my glow-in-the-dark star ceiling. The tiny plastic stars shimmered softly, casting an almost magical illusion. For a moment, they calmed me. My eyes fluttered shut.

Then my stomach growled.

Seconds later, I was wide awake again. I made a one-eighty turn from thinking about Andy Kane to thinking about food.

Spaniards invented fried fish. Fish and chips. Chips and fish.

Why would my brain do this to me at three in the morning? Wasn't I supposedly heartbroken?

I checked my alarm clock for what felt like the hundredth time and sighed. Time had slowed to a crawl, and all I wanted was to fast-forward straight to Spain.

“I give up,” I muttered, sliding out of bed.

I slipped on my glasses and padded into the dim hallway. The faulty light bulb flickered as I scanned the walls, my robe brushing the floor. My gaze landed on a framed family photo sitting on the mantel.

Mum smiled brightly. Dad stood behind her in his army uniform, holding a two-year-old Mickey. Brandon and I flanked them.

“Dad,” I whispered.

Tears burned my eyes. I remembered fighting with Brandon over who got to wear Dad’s military beret. Those days felt impossibly far away now. I hugged myself, swallowing the ache rising in my throat.

The soft clatter of utensils pulled me from my thoughts.

I followed the sound into the kitchen. “Mum, why are you up? It’s almost three a.m.”

She looked up, flour dusted across her face. “Making tarts,” she said with a tired sigh. “Are you helping, or just supervising?”

I grabbed an apron and started mixing flour and salt in a bowl. “Couldn’t sleep?”

“Neither could I,” she said, adding butter.

Watching her bake always made me sad. She’d done this the night Brandon left, too.

“I’ll be home for the holidays,” I reminded her.

“I know,” she said softly. “I just wanted to send you off properly. I’m sorry about dinner.”

“You’ve done more than enough,” I said.

Before she could reply, I wrapped my arms around her.

“I’ll call every day.”

She laughed gently. “That’s what Brandon said.”

“I’m different,” I said, inhaling the minty scent of her hair. “He smells like dust. I smell like strawberries.”

She chuckled. “Right now, you smell like eggs.”

We laughed together, and for a moment, everything felt okay.

Hours later, we stood at the airport checkpoint. Beck couldn’t come. She had some family drama, as usual.

“Bring me Spanish baguettes,” Mickey demanded. “I heard they’re crusty.”

I smiled despite the ache in my chest. “I’ll miss you, buddy. Try not to drive Mum crazy.”

“You know I try,” he said smugly.

I pinched his nose. “You’ll always be my little brother.”

He scoffed. “Girls are annoying.”

“So are your braces,” I shot back sweetly.

“Mum! Lisa is being a beotch!”

My jaw dropped. “Where did you even learn that word? Actually, never mind.”

Mum sighed and handed me my backpack. “Be good in Spain, Lisa. Or I’ll fly down there myself.”

“I’ll miss you,” I whispered.

“I’ll miss you more,” she said, kissing my cheeks.

'This is the final boarding call for passengers booked on flight 86A to Salamanca." The boarding announcement echoed through the terminal.

My throat tightened. I hugged them both, memorizing the feel of home. For a moment, I wondered if I should stay. Family mattered more than any scholarship. But they waved me on.

“Don’t forget my baguettes,” Mickey warned.

“I won’t.”

As I wheeled my luggage away, tears blurred my vision. I cried through the glass doors, onto the plane, and even as it lifted into the gray, endless sky. I was leaving everything I knew behind.