Page 189 of With a Cherry On Top

“Because!” he wails.

I go still.

That wasn’t just frustration. That was grief bleeding through the cracks.

“Because Mom really wants to make pumpkin pie next fall, and she—she?—”

Oh.

A sharp pain stabs through my ribs.

I think I know the problem.

“She couldn’t get in the car this morning,” Logan whispers, his back still to me. “She just...stopped. Like her body forgot how to move. She kept trying. Told me to give her a second. But it was like—like she wasn’t there anymore, just stuck. And her face...she knew. She knew what it meant.”

“It’s a...” I roll my wrist, recalling some of the stuff I read online. “A freezing episode.”

When he finally turns, his face is twisted in agony, tears cutting wet paths down his dirt-smudged cheeks.

Amelie’s breath catches beside me. I see the exact moment it hits, the moment she understands Mom is sick. She brings a hand to her lips like she’s trying to physically hold back the emotion. I breathe out too, fighting the same battle.

“Logan . . .” I mumble.

“I don’t know how many years of her pumpkin pies we’ll get, okay?” His voice is hoarse, almost pleading. “So I need to make sure these pumpkins are perfect.” His hands tremble as he picks up the bag of fertilizer, scattering it into the soil like it’s the most important thing he’ll ever do. The granules hit the dirt, lost among the earth, and he keeps going as if enough effort will hold back the inevitable.

“I need to do this.” His voice shatters on the last word, and he rakes a hand through his hair, smearing dirt into the strands. “I have to.”

I step forward, my chest aching as I rip the tool from his hands and throw it to the ground. Before he can react, I pull him in, wrapping my arms tightly around his shaking frame.

He stays rigid for half a second, like he’s fighting to hold himself together. But then the first sob shudders through him, then another. And another.

His body collapses against mine and I tighten my hold, one hand gripping the back of his neck, the other fisting his shirt. His tears soak into my shoulder, his breath coming in gasping, uneven bursts.

I close my eyes, pressing my chin to the top of his head. “That’s enough,” I say, sniffling. I pat his back twice, the way Darren used to do when we were kids. “Come on, enough.”

It takes a minute, but he eventually straightens, wiping his face roughly with the back of his hand. His eyes are red, his face blotchy, but the manic edge to his expression is gone.

“You know Mom would kick your ass if she saw you now, right?” I say, forcing a smirk, trying to lighten the air. “Crying over this on your wedding day instead of reveling in the fact that you’re about to marry the love of your life?”

A tired, barely-there chuckle escapes him. “Yeah.”

“Fuck the pumpkins—today,” I add quickly when he shoots me a warning glare. “Tomorrow, I’ll come fertilize them with you. Six a.m. It’s a date.”

“I start at five.”

“Fine. Five a.m.”

When he nods, Amelie brushes past him without a word and walks straight up to me. Before I can react, she throws her arms around my neck, nearly knocking the breath out of me.

“Oof.” I stumble back a step but hug her back.

“I’m so . . . so sorry, Aaron,” she says against my shoulder.

I close my eyes, my throat burning as I bury my face in her hair.

I can’t cry. Ican’tcry.

“I really wanted to tell you,” I explain, “but Mom insisted she didn’t want anyone to know, and?—”