Vegas: Devil's Rose #9

Chapter 24: June Emerson

"Charlie!" my mom calls my middle name as I step into the front door of my childhood home.

She only calls me June when I'm in trouble.

"I'm so glad you're home," she says warming before wrapping me in a tight hug. "How was your flight, darling?"

"It was good, Mom, thank you. Thanks for letting me stay here for the next few days."

"Of course! You're always welcome home! Your dad is in the kitchen, and we're making banana bread. Come have some while you update me on your own life."

"Leah," my dad, Jason, calls out my mom's name, "Is she here?"

"No shit, Jason!" she screams back, making the golden retriever dogs, Crayola and Doug (named after art supply suppliers) bark.

I don't know why my mom named Crayola and Doug. I think it partly has to do with her being a kindergarten teacher, but I've never asked her the question, so I'm not sure why. I'm not sure that she knows the reason either.

My dad gives me a tight hug, patting my head before stepping back to his banana bread project.

"Last time we talked, things were going haywire for you, darling. How are you now?" my dad asks me gently.

"Things are still complicated. That's one of the reasons I'm here."

"Another reason being that you love and miss us, right?" my mom teases, wrapping her arms around me again.

"Yes," I chuckle, "that's the number one reason."

"Well, whenever you want to talk about it, we're here for you," my dad acknowledges, my mom nodding her head along with him.

"Thank you. You two are the best. Would it be okay if I took a little rest before we caught up? I haven't been on a plane in a while, and I totally forgot how exhausting travel can be."

They catch each other's eyes, and I can see the silent communication between them. It reminds me of Bruce and all of a sudden, my headache gets worse. However, they don't say what they are thinking, and instead, let me get my rest. I can't hide my emotions from anyone. Not that I would hide them from my parents. I'm an open fucking book.

Stepping into my childhood bedroom, I lay my things in front of my closet on the floor and drop myself onto the twin bed with a purple comforter. I stare up at the ceiling, taking calming breaths. Feelings of nostalgia rush over me as I lay in my bed.

My parents haven't changed a single thing in my room since I moved out after high school. After all this time, I would think that they would have. I honestly don't come back to visit them as much as I should. They could be doing so many things with this room that they aren't.

My dad could use it as a painting studio instead of going to the one in the city. My mother could use it as her office for her theology professor duties. She did go back to school after I left for college and got her Ph.D. in theology, now working a UAlbany.

It might even be a good substitute for their way too tiny library they have in a closet downstairs.

But they don't. If it were me, I would have changed it the moment that I had moved out. It wasn't like I was ever going to be back for an extended period of time.

Right now though, I couldn't be more thankful that they didn't change a thing. There were many late high school nights where I laughed with my friends as girl talk filled up the empty space. My dad and I decorated it in middle school with neon stars on the ceiling, but I took them down about two weeks later because I couldn't sleep.