Page 47

“I wanted to. I feel like it’s been a long time since we had breakfast together.” She slides a perfect, golden pancake onto a growing stack. “Besides, after all that fresh air last night, I figured you’d be hungry.”

“So, it wasn’t a dream?” I mumble to myself.

I’m about to innocently ask her what she means when she continues. “Coffee’s ready. Help yourself.”

I get up and pour myself a cup from the pot, inhaling the rich aroma. Mom’s coffee is always perfect: strong but not bitter, with just the right amount of boldness. As I add a splash of cream, I notice she has only set out one cup.

“Aren’t you having any?” I ask, settling back into my chair.

She brings over the plate of pancakes and sets them in front of me. “I had tea earlier with your young man.”

The coffee sloshes dangerously close to the rim of my cup as I hear this. “My young what now?”

She turns back to the counter, retrieving the syrup and placing it beside my plate. “That nice young man who was out there with you most of the night.”

My face heats up. So, Griffin was real. He was here, slept with me under the stars, and apparently, had tea with my mother.

I’m not ready for this conversation, not when my own memories of last night are still foggy. I stand abruptly, needing a moment to process, and find myself pulling my mother into a tight hug from behind before I even realize what I’m doing.

She stiffens in surprise for just a moment before melting into the embrace, her hands coming up to cover mine where they’re clasped around her middle.

“I missed you, Mom,” I whisper, my voice thick with sudden, unexpected emotion. “So much.”

She squeezes my hands. “I missed you, too.” Her voice wavers slightly. “Even when I didn’t remem—Even on the bad days, some part of me always missed you.”

This rare, precious acknowledgment of her condition makes my throat tighten. I press my face between her shoulder blades, breathing in the familiar scent of her lavender perfume and the faint undertone of vanilla that seems to follow her everywhere. For a moment, we’re suspended in time—mother and daughter, holding on to each other against the current of an illness that threatens to sweep everything away.

“Now,” she says finally, patting my hands and reclaiming her practical tone, though I can hear the lingering emotion. “These pancakes are getting cold. Let’s eat together, and you can tell me all about this trip you’ve been on.”

I reluctantly release her and wipe quickly at my eyes before returning to my seat. Cutting into the stack of pancakes, I try to figure out how to navigate this conversation. The first bite melts in my mouth. Perfect as always, the blueberries bursting with sweetness.

I quickly change the topic from the trip before she can ask anything specific. “So,” I begin, deciding to simply dive in. “You met Griffin.”

“Is that his name?” She doesn’t turn around. “He didn’t say. Very polite, though. Helped me bring in more firewood for the hearth before he left. Said he didn’t want us to be cold.”

I take another bite of pancake, chewing slowly. “What...uh, what else did he say?”

Now she turns, drying her hands on a dish towel, a knowing look in her eyes. “Not much about himself. Mostly asked about you. Wanted to know what you were like growing up. I showed him a few of your baby pictures.”

I nearly choke on my coffee. “Mom!”

“What? It’s endearing.” She hangs the towel on its hook and leans against the counter, studying me. “He carried you inside, you know. Just as the sun was coming up. So gentle, like he was afraid you might break. Took off your shoes, tucked you in.”

The image of Griffin carrying me to bed, pulling the covers over me...I push my plate away slightly, my appetite suddenly compromised by the flutter in my stomach.

“I approve of this one,” Mom says, her tone casual but her eyes sharp, missing none of my reaction.

“There’s nothing to approve of,” I protest, feeling like a teenager again. “We’re not—There’s nothing going on between us.”

“Hmm.” She makes a noncommittal sound that speaks volumes. “Doesn’t seem that way to me.”

“He’s just—” I struggle to find the right words. “There’s nothing going on.”

“He certainly seems to like you.”

“He’s not my type,” I say too quickly.

Mom raises an eyebrow. “Your type? I see. So, you’re going to break his heart, then?”