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."

"Ah, yes." Her eyes soften, like she knows the truth but is too kind to harp on it, "You always did golden up quite nicely. I'm jealous."

She gestures to her fair skin, the same skin her grandson has.

"Says the woman who takes more sunscreen from the store than we even sell." Luke raises a brow. We laugh a little and before it can become too quiet, Luke speaks again. "So Dylan works at the center, Mom."

"That's right," She nods, looking around carefully before continuing. "My grandson tells me all about you. I hope he doesn't talk your ear off too much, or keep you from the other kiddos."

I sigh in relief, grateful yet again, for my little friend. Finn, at least, is easy to talk about.

"Finn is great, really. Don't tell the others, but he just might be the best storyteller of the bunch."

"Don't I know it," Talia rolls her eyes but I see pride there, too. As much as Luke says his parents are tired of picking up for Laura, it's clear that Talia obviously loves that boy.

I feel myself relax as we slip into easy conversation about Finn, his stories, and the fishing trips he's taken with Luke. It's light and superficial, but easy nonetheless and I don't mind it nearly as much as I thought I would before seeing her. I'm even cracking jokes myself by the time Mr. Henson, tall and broad, and seemingly irritated, wanders into the kitchen.

"Tal, where's my good pair of tongs? I only have these and the spring is broken." He grunts, tossing the broken pair on the counter and pulling open a drawer. He shoves utensils aside gruffly, creating a racket of metallic clanging sounds.

"In the dishwasher darling, I knew you'd need them." Talia opens the machine and hands them over. Then she makes what I suspect she thinks are subtle eye-movements towards Luke and me.

Following her hints, Mr. Henson slowly lifts his eyes to his son first, then to me. Luke looks so much like him, I think, but so much better because of the softness he's inherited from his mom. I stiffen as Mr. Henson's frown seems to grow more pronounced.

"Luke." He nods. "I see you invited Dylan after all. Dylan, good to see you."

It doesn't seem like he really thinks so. Awkwardness washes over me as I realize whether or not I'd be invited had been up for discussion. And judging by his tone, he wasn't exactly in favor. The sudden feeling of intruding somewhere where I was not wanted begins to creep in.

"Nice to see you again, Mr. Henson." I wave lamely, lifting my hand from its place on my beer.

He nods, glancing down at the bottle, and makes towards the screen door again, new tongs in hand.

"Paul, please. Stay and chat a bit," Talia urges not-so-subtly, nodding towards the empty stool beside her.

Mr. Henson looks from her, to the tongs, to the stool, and back to her, his expression making it clear he'd rather barbecue than converse with us. My knee begins bouncing nervously again and Luke notices, placing a palm over my thigh.

"How's the brisket looking?" Luke asks, taking a slow drink and smacking his lips.

"Good, good. I'll have to check it again soon." Mr. Henson looks over his shoulder as if the meat might run off the grill at any second.

"Hush," Talia swats his shoulder. "It'll be fine. We were just talking about Dylan's work at the daycare center. You mentioned you'll be finished come fall, isn't that right?"

I nod, wishing I hadn't said anything at all. It was easier when Mr. Henson wasn't staring at me, thinly masked disinterest painted plainly over his features.

"Going back to college, then?" He mutters before I can give an answer, rubbing a hand over his chin. "Brown, wasn't it?"

My heart drops into my stomach like a rock. "Um, no... That was, um-"

"That was Casey, Dad." Luke says then, his tone final. Like this was something Mr. Henson should've known, a topic to be avoided even.

"Ah, right." Mr. Henson doesn't apologize. Talia looks as if she might, but he speaks over her. "Where then? You're going back this fall?"

"Oh, just a small private school in Maine." I struggle to sound nonchalant, my throat still tight. "But-"

"Maine?" He scoffs, clanking the tongs together again and again. My knee bounces to his rhythm as he pesters further. "Why Maine?"

Because it was basically the middle of no where. Exactly where I needed to be, a place untouched by Casey and therefore, one that wouldn't suffocate me completely.

But I can't say that. If I could, I wouldn't. Not to him.

"I liked the campus," I lie, feeling the skin of my neck getting hot. "But I'm actually not going back, I dropped out."

The words sound more confident than I feel - perhaps too confident given that I'm talking to Luke's parents and making myself less desirable by the second. But I meet Mr. Henson's eyes and refuse to look away.

My own parents can dump on me for this decision. But not him, it's not his place. I won't let him.

"Ah, well." He sighs, his tone bordering friendly and passively condescending. "Not everyone can handle the pressure of college."

"Dad," Luke mutters, but I stop him. My mother has said worse things. I can handle some slight interrogation, I can.

I've been through far worse than Mr. fucking Henson.

I could point out how funny it is that he cares, given that neither of his children went to college. Never mind Brown, where Casey was set to go.

Instead, I keep my voice even, pleasant enough that no one can say I was being confrontational. "I was set to graduate a semester early, actually. It just wasn't for me."

"Beauty and brains," Luke tries to lighten the mood. He stands, breaking the tension a little, and brings our empty bottles to the side of the sink. "I'm having another beer. Dad, you want one? Dylan?"

His attempt at distracting the conversation backfires as Mr. Henson eyes the empties. The second time he's taken notice of the beers.

"No, son, I'm all set." The tongs clang together in his hands. "Dylan, I'm assuming you won't be driving then? Don't need another accident any time soon. Can't be too careful-"

"Paul!" Talia hisses.

Luke snaps at the same time, "Dad, that's enough."

But I barely hear them, Mr. Henson's words ringing against the inside of my skull, drowning out everything else. Anger boils inside me, nearly exploding from my every pore.

If he hates me for whatever I've done to Luke, that's one thing. But to throw the accident in my face, ignoring his own son's involvement, just to hurt me?

It's low. Lower than I would have expected. I was never close to Luke's dad the way I was to his mom, but he was always kind.

And that, that was just cruel.

Seconds go by and feel like forever in my mind as I try to regulate my emotions, to avoid saying something I'll regret.

But before I can think to say anything at all, something clever to refute him or something stunningly mature to shut him up, his own daughter bursts into the kitchen, hands flipping through the air as she shouts.

"Well, Dev isn't going to be coming today." Laura slams her phone down on the island, making me jump.

With one last look at each of us, his stare unpleasantly sticking longer on me, Mr. Henson sighs, tapping the tongs to the granite one final time. I watch him, silently fuming and unable to put it into the right words.

"On that note," He turns away from us, "I'm going to check on my brisket."

guys, this story has 200k reads!
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