Page 121 of Almost Rotten

Head tipped back, I yawn. It’s completely dark now. Not even the embers are glowing anymore.

“We should get to bed,” he muses.

I nod, though I make no move to climb off his lap.

“Just so we’re clear,” he says, “we’re going in to work together tomorrow morning.”

I hum my acknowledgment.

“Whatever was happening with Tremblay, whatever you think you owe him, it’s done. It has to be.”

My heart sinks. I want to be done, too.

But I’m already dreading the fallout.

“None of what happened was okay,” he whispers.

I swallow down the lump in my throat. “I know,” I mutter as tears well in my eyes.

“We’ll figure out what’s next together,” he says, squeezing me gently. “Please don’t scare us like that again, Little Nuisance. I don’t think our hearts could take it.”

Chapter fifty-one

Sawyer

When I finally slink out of bed, leaving both men sleeping, I pluck Noah’s flannel off the ground and slip it on. Instantly, his cedarwood scent comforts me.

In the kitchen, the coffee is already brewing, thanks to the timer Noah set last night. I retrieve a retro Evercrisp Orchard campfire mug and fill it about three-fourths full.

When I pull open the fridge and discover three types of fall-flavored creamers, thanks to Mercer’s grocery run yesterday, I fight back a squeal.

I top off my mug with the caramel apple flavor, then eye the white pastry box that contains the leftover pie.

It’s tempting, but I go for the carton of eggs instead. Making breakfast for the guys is a far wiser move than giving myself a sugar rush this early.

Quietly, I rummage through a few cupboards, eventually finding a medium-size cast-iron pan. I have no idea how either of them like their eggs, so I settle on a soft scramble and turn on the gas burner.

When a bird call fills the otherwise quiet kitchen, I startle and dart a look at the Birds of Ohio wall clock hanging above the stove.

It’s only six, and that’s the sound of the common loon.

I can’t help but smile as I survey the rest of the eclectic space. It’s a blend of vintage décor and newer appliances, with blue-green Formica countertops, a butcher-block island, and a lone stainless-steel counter on one side.

The solid-wood table is worn and weathered and surrounded by eight chairs, despite only one person living in this house full time.

I close my eyes and imagine a younger Noah sitting there with his family, a wistful sort of nostalgia sweeping through me. I can’t even recall the last real meal our family sat down to together. Not because they didn’t happen regularly, but because they happened so often that they were typically unremarkable. There’s an ache in my chest when I think of how much I took for granted before losing my parents.

The thought is a reminder that I need to touch base with Atty.

Once I’ve found a bowl to crack the eggs into, I locate my clothes from Saturday night. They’ve been laundered and folded into a neat pile—Mercer’s doing, I’m sure. Beside the pile, my phone waits, turned off and untouched since Saturday night.

I power on the device, and when a myriad of messages and notifications pours in, I cringe. I promptly delete every message from Ty, then clear out the voicemails without listening to them.

Setting my phone aside, I return to the eggs, whisking them in the bowl, then adding butter to the pan.

As I scramble them, I scan the messages I didn’t delete. I reply to Cam and react to a few updates in the Shrinky Dink Rink Crew group chat. The first broomball game of the season was last night, and our team won. Thankfully, I told them early on that I wasn’t available for Sunday games, since it’s usually my catch-up day.

I send a text to Atty, checking in, then lock my phone screen and set the device down.