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Oh fuck, now I was really gonna cry. I kissed the top of her head, blinking back the tears. “I love you too, Ariel. So very much.”
We stood there for a moment, our arms wrapped around each other, before Ariel finally pulled away. She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, a determined look on her face. “Let’s finish dinner,” she said, picking up the knife again. “The others will be hungry soon.”
As we resumed our cooking, I watched Ariel, seeing in her the strength and resilience that had become our family’s trademark. She was growing up too fast, shouldering burdens she should never have to carry. But she was strong, and she was brave, and I knew that together, we could face anything.
We could survive without Wolfe, as wonderful as he was. We could survive with no one but each other. We were a family, and that was all that mattered.
There were more than a few times in the past week that I’d second guessed myself about ending things with Wolfe. All I had to do was remember my sisters, curled up in the bottom of the shower, crying, and I knew I’d done the right thing. I’d told him what I needed. He’d replied that he couldn’t give me that. The end.
The weight of my decision settled around me, a heavy but necessary burden. I knew I had made the right choice. For Ariel, for all of us.
“I’m going to make sure you have the life you deserve,” I whispered, more to myself than to Ariel.
She glanced over at me, a small smile playing on her lips. “I know you will.”
Even though Ariel sounded way older than her twelve years, in that moment, I believed her.
As Ariel resumed chopping, I prepared the sauce, stirring the pot slowly, lost in thought. The aroma of garlic and tomatoes filled the kitchen, a scent that had often filled the trailer during our childhood.
“Do you remember when Mom used to make spaghetti sauce like this?” Ariel asked, her voice soft with remembrance.
I shot her a sideways look. We hardly ever talked about our mom, and never with anything approaching fondness. We hadn’t even seen her since Belle was about three months old. Given that the memory seemed to make Ariel happy, I followed her lead and with a smile tugging at the corners of my mouth, said, “I do. She’d let me help her stir, and you’d always try to sneak a taste.”
Ariel’s eyes sparkled with mischief. “And I’d always end up with sauce on my face.”
We shared a laugh. “Yeah, I remember that.”
“But then, she stopped cooking,” Ariel’s voice trailed off, her eyes dimming. “And you had to take over.”
The smile vanished from my face, the memory turning bitter. “Yes,” I said, my voice tight. “I had to.”
Ariel reached over and touched my arm. “But you always made it better than she did. You always made everything better.”
Tears stung my eyes, and I turned away, focusing on the bubbling sauce. “I tried, Ariel. I still try, every day.”
“I know you do. And you succeed.” Her voice was full of conviction, full of love.
A sudden sizzle and the smell of something burning jerked me out of the memories of the past. I looked down to see the sauce splattering, a burned smell rising from the pot.
“Shit!” I exclaimed, hastily turning down the heat.
Ariel was at my side in an instant, grabbing a spoon to help me stir. “It’s okay, we can fix it.”
Together, we worked to salvage the sauce, adding a bit more tomato and some extra spices. Our movements were synchronized, born from years of shared responsibility and teamwork.
As we tasted the sauce, a look of triumph passed between us. “Perfect,” Ariel declared, grinning at me.
“Perfect,” I agreed, my heart swelling with pride.
We continued to cook, our conversation flowing easily now. As Ariel told me about some shit fight between her friends at school, I listened closely. It was so unlike her to share this stuff with me these days that I really wanted to make the most of it. At the back of my mind, I knew it sprang from her feelings about Belle and the accident, and maybe her need to be closer to me, for reassurance. So I gave it to her, as best I could.
And when dinner was finally ready, we called the kids into the kitchen to set the table. Serving up plates of spaghetti and meatballs, laughing at their enthusiasm.
As we sat down to eat, I looked around the table at my family. At the faces of those I loved more than anything in the world, and I knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that I had made the right choice. No matter how much it hurt.
CHAPTER33
Wolfe