I run a hand over my beard as I wait at the red light. Damn, there’s a hell of a lot more traffic here now than there used to be.

Sitting in my pick-up truck, the memories of this town create a nostalgic punch to the gut. I’m back in my hometown and it’s strange how different everything feels now that I’m thirty. I haven’t lived here since I was eighteen. I bought my first truck and drove up into the mountains to become a forest ranger. I left this place and never looked back.

My mom always thought I would return home after I’d had my fun but I never did. That eager new forest ranger became a seasoned forest ranger, and soon it wasn’t just a job anymore; it was a part of my identity. Something I wore outwardly just as plainly as the beard on my face.

I was never really into the kind of life people lead when they put down roots in a cul-de-sac. I wanted something different and I found it.

But, damn, it gets lonely sometimes.

At the light, a red Corvette pulls up beside me and stops with a lurch. The woman driving looks at me with eyes that scream desperate, and her fake tits and practically orange skin tell me she is not the kind of woman I like. She unabashedly licks her lips and I smirk, having no interest in her.

She revs her engine, looking me right in the eye. I shake my head, telling her no thanks. Her car gives a well-oiled purr, yes, but mine has the yowl of a wild beast. I sure as hell won’t waste that on her.

This is the very same truck, in fact, I bought with my hard-earned money when I was eighteen, and it has the caked-on mud and low hanging branch scratches anyone would expect from a mountain man’s only vehicle. It’s not that I can’t afford a new one, not by any stretch, but if it ain’t broke why the hell would I fix it?

The light changes and she takes off like a shot. Instantly, the car I recognize as Sheriff Bailey’s dusty old motor lights up and squeals after her. Maybe the Sherriff will be more interested in that cougar than I am.

I pull away at a reasonable speed, make a couple of turns, and crunch onto the driveway of the beautiful suburban house I know so well.

It always kind of makes me nervous to be back here, and I can’t put my finger on why. If I had to guess, it would probably be all the people, all the houses, all the extra height on every building compared to the modest cabins up in the mountains that I’m now used to. While every home here is big and bigger, they’re all flat, redundant. Each home painted red, blue, or gray and it makes me miss my own place, where shades of green color my plot of land.

The moment I let myself in, I’m bowled over by a shaggy white wolf of a dog. I swear to God he was the size of a sack of flour when I last visited. Bandit was a puppy when I saw him last, and now he’s basically a Shetland pony. I laugh and push him back onto his four paws before rubbing him on the head. Mom has been obsessed with this breed of dog for forever, and I’m so glad she finally has one to keep her company.

“Mom?” I call.

“In here, Dane,” a surprisingly happy voice replies from the kitchen beyond. Mom is good at showing her family off--as I walk down the hallway toward the sound of her voice, I pass dozens of framed photos of me growing up, her siblings’ kids, and their kids. Seeing this collage of familial bliss always makes me wonder if I’m missing something by being a bachelor.

It makes me nostalgic for a future I’m not sure I’ll ever have. Mom’s pretty desperate for me to land a wife and have a few kids -- as many as possible -- but I guess I’m just too picky. I dated a lot in my twenties, but once I hit thirty a few months ago I pretty much just accepted that I might never be satisfied. Maybe I need a dog like Bandit to keep me company.

“Mom, you gotta get off your feet,” I chastise when I round the corner to the kitchen, Bandit trotting at my heels. “I was there when the doctors told you that, remember?”

She tuts and waves her hand at me dismissively. “And you were there when I said I could still do some things. I broke my leg, I’m not sick.”

“I know, I know,” I say, but I nod at the huge metal crutch she’s having to lean on to get her mug of tea washed up, getting the spray of water from the faucet all over the counter.

Taking control, I lead her to her comfy armchair in the living room. When I’m done cleaning up the spill, I boil another pot of tea. Hot drinks are comforting to her; growing up the house almost always smelled like spicy Assam or Nilgiri leaves.

While the fresh batch of tea brews, I open my mouth to ask what she was thinking for dinner, but she interrupts me from the other room.

“You know, you don’t have to stay here long. I’m fine without you, darling.”

I let out a sigh loud enough that she can hear it, knowing it’ll make her smile. “I’m staying for a couple of weeks, just like the doctor said. Remember?”

“I remember, I remember,” she says. “But if there’s anyone you want to get home to, I won’t be offended. I’m capable, you know.”

She is capable. She raised me alone, worked two jobs, always made sure I never wanted for anything, but this isn’t a case of inner strength. This is a case of physically being able to get up and down the damn stairs.

“There’s no one I want to get home to, Mom,” I say, the real meaning of her words dawning on me. “I’m still not seeing anyone. I told you that.”

“That’s alright, darling,” she says, surprising me -- there doesn’t seem to be any trace of dishonesty in her words. Usually, when I tell her I’m still single she wrinkles her nose and gets sour for a couple of minutes. The length of the silence has extended by several seconds with every year I age.

“It is?” I can’t help but respond, bringing her the pot of tea and one of her favorite mugs. It has a pair of cute Alaskan Malamutes playing on it. Bandit’s tail thumps at her feet when I hand him his biscuit.

“There are plenty of eligible women out there, after all. There’s no rush.”

No rush? Who is this woman? I’m tempted to ask her if she hit her head in that car crash as well as her leg.

“What’s going on, Mom?”

She looks at me with wide eyes that say ‘Who, me?’ but I’m not fooled for a second. She sighs and looks away. “Alright, I found someone. But before you say anything, Dane, she is perfect for you. And I know I’ve said that once or twice before--”

“Eight times.”

“--but this time I truly mean it. She’s pretty, she’s single.” She raises her eyebrows at me and I blow out a breath.

“They were all pretty and they were all single,” I say. “Except for…” We both say, “Tamara Lewis,” at the same time, and then laugh. She blows on her tea.

“What a disaster,” she admits. “You know her husband still hasn’t left her.”

I shrug, not caring anything about this suburban gossip, but I don’t want to say anything rude and hurt my mother’s feelings, especially when she’s feeling down about not being able to move around much.

“So,” I say, “tell me about this girl.” I regret the words the moment they come out of my mouth.

But Mom’s smile is so wide when she hears me say this that I need to let her continue. It’s alright. I can talk about women with her every so often if it makes her happy. It’s no skin off my nose.

“Well, she lives right next door,” she says, and I wait for more but there isn’t any.

“Okay then,” I say finally. “I’m going to prep dinner, so you sit tight, and Bandit will watch you while I’m in the kitchen, alright?”

“Nonsense, I can at least help you,” she says, leaning forward to get out of her chair, but she can’t help but grimace at the pain in her leg and I shake my head at her.

“Just sit still for once, Mom,” I tell her. “Watch some television.” I make my way back to the kitchen to figure out what she has in her cupboards and fridge that would be easy enough for me to make. I’m not exactly a chef, but these next couple of weeks shouldn’t be a struggle.

I grab a couple of red onions and slice off the tops and bottoms, then peel them, deciding to make up some kind of recipe as I go along. I hear Bandit bark softly from the other room to alert my mom to someone outside, and I glance out of the window.

A woman, a little younger than me, I’d guess, with her red hair up in a loose bun and a pair of sunglasses perched on the top of her head is carrying groceries out from her car. She mouths something when a couple of melons tumble from her hands and onto the driveway. I frown at her through the window for a few moments, wondering what it is I’m watching, and then I wipe my hands on my jeans and I duck out the front door.

She looks up, blowing hair from her face, melons in her arms, and her cheeks flush instantly as she straightens herself up.

“Uh, can I help you?” I ask her, glancing left and right. I could make some lewd joke about her melons but refrain, not wanting to scare her away. What kind of bizarre act of fate has led a woman as beautiful as this right to this house? She stares at me for a few more seconds, and then clears her throat.

“Are you Helen’s son?” she asks.

“Daphne, darling!” my mom cries from behind me, up from her armchair and leaning on her crutch. “Do come in, are you alright?”

“Hi, Helen!” the woman says brightly. “They, uh, they had melons on sale, and we were talking about them the other day. I just picked up a couple for you, and…” She trails off, her gaze sliding back over to me as if she really wasn’t expecting to run into me here. I can’t help but smile at how sexy this woman looks even when flustered.

I move to take the melons from her -- a fucking ridiculous number of melons, I don’t know what she was thinking -- and notice her skin reddens further when our hands touch.

“Come in, come in! We just made a pot of tea.” My mother is jostled in the doorway a little by Bandit’s thumping tail.

“Oh, I need to get my groceries into the house, and finish up a little work,” she says, shaking her head lightly. I can’t help but feel a little disappointed. She is wearing an outfit she has clearly thrown together to go to the store in, a loose sweater, hanging off one shoulder and tight floral leggings, hugging her in all the right places.

I try not to think about what’s underneath her top… mainly her melons… and keep my eyes firmly on hers.

“Well come for dinner then? In a couple of hours?” my mom encourages. I want to change the subject and get her back inside, just in case Daphne feels pressured, but the redheaded beauty’s face lights up instead.

“Sure, Helen, that would be really nice,” she says, and then raises her eyebrows and looks me right in the eye. “And I know just what I’ll bring for dessert.”