"No you don't," I replied honestly. "I don't think anything will be able to top last night. It was pretty great."
"It was," he agreed, pulling down my street. "But would you be interested in going on a normal date? You know, adventure-less? Dinner, movies or something?"
I grinned at the thought of the two of us in a restaurant and nodded. "That would be nice."
"After I get back," Evan promised, turning into the driveway.
I only half heard him because I was staring at the cheerful yellow house, fearful of what awaited me after my mother's distraught phone call.
"Are you okay?" Evan asked from beside me.
"Huh?" I answered, pulling my eyes away to look at him.
"Is everything all right between you and Rachel? You were really upset last night."
"I just felt bad that I worried her, that's all. Just a miscommunication," I explained lightly, not wanting him to hear the guilt beneath the sugar coating. "We're fine." When he didn't look convinced, I insisted with a smile, "Really."
"You'd tell me, right?" Evan looked into my eyes, trying to read the truth. I blinked away, skirting my eyes to the floor.
"Of course," I answered, opening the door. I leaned over and pressed my lips to his, begging him to believe me. "Have fun in Tahoe with the guys. I'll see you on Sunday."
He pulled me toward him and gave me a kiss that would be sure to tide us over for the entire week. Barely able to stand, I staggered toward the door―turning once to wave before he backed out of the driveway.
I took a deep breath, sobering instantly when I clasped the cold door handle. I pushed it open with my pulse racing, not sure what was about to happen. I quietly shut the door behind me, and froze when I heard laughter coming from the kitchen. Not at all what I was expecting.
"Emma," Rachel exclaimed still giggling from within the kitchen. "How was the party?"
The radio playing in the background was suddenly cut off by the high pitched sounds of a blender.
"Don't let it get too thin," my mother instructed. I walked to the doorway to find the counters covered in food in different stages of preparation. Tomatoes were diced on a cutting board; garlic skins littered the table; lime slices lay squeezed and abandoned, and the entire kitchen smelled of cilantro and jalapenos.
"Hi," I greeted hesitantly.
"Hey," Jonathan smiled, appearing completely relaxed. "We're umm … "
"Preparing for Margarita Call Out of Work Day," my mother explained. That's when it struck me that they were supposed to be at work, it being Monday. "We're going to Heidi's to play cards and pretend we're in Mexico."
"Oh," I responded, thrown by her exuberant disposition. "Sounds fun."
"Yes it does," she answered excitedly. "I figured Jonathan could handle making salsa." She examined the contents of the blender, "Maybe I was wrong. Sweetie, just go start packing the bag, and I'll fix this, okay?" She kissed him on the cheek when he grimaced apologetically.
"He can't cook either," she explained with a comical shake of her head. "So, how was the party?" she asked again once Jonathan had passed me to get a bag out of the coat closet.
"It was fun," I answered, wondering if I'd dreamt the phone call. "But I didn't get a lot of sleep. I think I'm going to crash for a while."
"That happens―means it was a great party." She smirked knowingly. I hesitated, examining her. She looked perfectly fine, not at all devastated as she was on the phone last night.
"What?" she questioned when I lingered too long.
"Have fun in Margaritaville," I offered with a smile.
She laughed at my reference and declared, "Oh, we will."
"Where are the mixers we bought?" Jonathan hollered from the living room, placing bottles and glasses into a re-usable shopping bag.
"Upstairs in my room," my mother responded. Jonathan was a few steps behind me as I dragged my body up the stairs.
"Hey," he beckoned lowly before I could enter my room. I turned to face him. "How are you?" That one question, combined with the anticipatory look in his eyes, confirmed I hadn't imagined anything.
"Confused," I answered honestly, opening my door.
"I don't think she remembers," he explained. "I kinda screwed up last night, so she took it out on you. My fault, and I'm sorry."
"What do you mean?" I asked, the confusion still looming.