Chapter 329
**Sara**
I bit my lip, wondering what Tom was doing. Probably still stuck in meetings, given the time difference. Was he bored out of his mind listening to corporate presentations? Was he charming everyone in the room with that smile of his? Had he remembered to eat lunch, or was he running on coffee and stubbornness like he often did during busy days?
The mental image of Tom attempting to discreetly eat a protein bar during a board meeting made me smile. He'd told me once about sneaking snacks into meetings, hiding them in his suit jacket like some kind of corporate ninja.
"What's got you smiling like that?"
I jumped at Charles's voice, nearly dropping my phone. "Nothing! Just... a funny meme Jessica sent me."
He raised an eyebrow, clearly not buying it, but didn't press further. "Mom's breaking out the photo albums. You might want to make a run for it while you still can."
I groaned. "Not the purple tutu photos."
"Especially the purple tutu photos. She's showing those photos to Melissa."
"That traitor!" I leaped up from the bench. "Those photos were supposed to be burned!"
Charles laughed, heading back toward the house. "You know Mom. She's documented every embarrassing moment of our lives for posterity."
I glanced at my phone again before pocketing it and following Charles inside.
The warm glow from the windows spilled onto the patio, and I could hear Mom's laughter mixing with Melissa's. Dad was protesting something loudly, likely Mom sharing the story of his infamous attempt to give Charles a home haircut.
"It wasn't that bad!" Dad's voice carried through the open window.
"Honey, he looked like he'd been attacked by a lawnmower," Mom replied. "The school called me thinking he'd gotten into a fight!"
I hurried inside, determined to save myself from the photo onslaught. Too late. Mom had the dreaded maroon album open on her lap, Melissa leaning in with delight while Charles stood behind them, arms crossed and looking pained.
"Mom!" I lunged for the album, but she swiftly moved it out of reach with the reflexes of a ninja – skills apparently developed solely for the purpose of embarrassing her children.
"What? You were adorable!" Mom protested. "Look how serious your face is. You were counting the steps in your head the whole time."
Melissa's eyes lit up. "Oh my god, is that a purple tutu with actual fairy lights sewn into it?"
"Battery-operated," Mom confirmed proudly. "I made it myself."
"And it short-circuited halfway through the performance," I groaned, sinking onto the couch. "I lit up like a Christmas tree having a seizure."
Dad chuckled. "The other parents thought it was part of the show."
"My dance teacher had to unplug me backstage," I added, reaching for the album. "Let me see that monstrosity."
Mom handed it over, and I flipped through the pages, cringing at each captured moment of childhood awkwardness. There I was, front tooth missing, hair in lopsided pigtails. Another showed me covered head-to-toe in mud after declaring I could find buried treasure in the backyard. Then, the infamous tutu incident – my face was frozen in horror as tiny lights flickered chaotically around my waist.
"I'm surprised I didn't develop a dance phobia," I muttered.
"Are you kidding?" Charles snorted. "You were back at it the next week with double the determination. Mom had to ban light-up accessories."
I flipped to the next page and burst out laughing. "Oh, but look at you in the school play! Nice donkey head, bro."
Charles lunged for the album. "That's enough memory lane for tonight!"
"No, no," Melissa said, grabbing the album back. "I need to see this."
"I was Joseph's loyal steed," Charles explained with as much dignity as possible. "The costume department had a limited budget."
"The ears are made from Mom's old leg warmers," I pointed out helpfully.
Mom beamed with pride. "I was very resourceful."
"You were very something," Dad muttered, earning himself a playful swat.
We spent the next hour passing the album around, each photo sparking another story, another burst of laughter. Even Charles eventually relaxed, joining in with his own embarrassing tales about me.
By the time we finished dessert, my cheeks hurt from smiling so much. I'd forgotten how good it felt to be home, surrounded by the people who knew every awkward, silly, embarrassing detail about me and loved me anyway.
After helping clean up, I excused myself to my old bedroom. "Early start tomorrow," I explained, kissing Mom and Dad goodnight.
"It's so good to have you home, sweetheart," Mom said, hugging me tight. "Even if it's just for a night."
"Don't forget breakfast," Dad added. "I'm making my famous pancakes."
"Famous for setting off the smoke alarm," I teased, dodging his attempt to ruffle my hair.
I trudged up the stairs, suddenly feeling the weight of the day. My old bedroom welcomed me like a time capsule – high school volleyball trophies still on the shelf, faded posters on the walls, and the same lavender bedspread I'd picked out when I was sixteen. Mom had added a few touches – fresh flowers on the nightstand, a new reading lamp – but otherwise, it remained frozen in time.
Flopping onto my bed, I stared at the ceiling where glow-in-the-dark stars still formed constellations I'd meticulously arranged years ago. The mattress remembered my shape, cradling me in familiar comfort.
I pulled out my phone, checking again. Still nothing.
A twinge of worry crept in. Was Tom okay? Had his meetings run late? Maybe he'd lost his phone, or it had died, or Australia had suddenly lost all cellular service in a freak telecommunications disaster.
"You're being ridiculous," I mumbled, plugging my phone into the charger.
The rational part of my brain knew he was probably just busy. The irrational part wondered if he'd already forgotten about me, distracted by Australian models with their perfect accents and sun-kissed skin.
I rolled over, burying my face in my pillow. This wasn't like me – this constant checking, this neediness. What had Tom done to my independent spirit?
My eyelids grew heavy as the day's events caught up with me. Exhaustion settled deep in my bones between the drive home and the emotional rollercoaster of family dinner.
"He'll message tomorrow," I murmured, already half-asleep. The familiar sounds of home, Dad's laugh downstairs, the creaking of the old house, and the distant hoot of an owl outside my window lulled me deeper into sleep.
My last conscious thought before drifting off was that I had forgotten to set an alarm. Dad's pancakes and the inevitable smoke detector symphony would wake me soon enough.
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