Page 22

CHAPTER 22

WHY NOW?

KAYDEN

I try to be quiet the next morning, but I'm barely out of bed before I hear Emory gasp.

"Warn a girl before you wake her up to the sight of a shirtless… you."

I cross my arms over my chest and turn my back to her, picking up my t-shirt from where I threw it last night. "Sorry to traumatize you." When I peek over my shoulder, I find her gawking at me. "I got hot last night, but you had the blanket pulled over your head."

"I was freezing."

"That's why I didn't turn down the heat." When I have the shirt pulled on, I look back at her. She's sitting up with the covers drawn tight around her, gaze fixed on her lap. Her expression makes me wonder if I imagined the way her eyes trailed over my bare skin just a few seconds ago. "I'll get extra blankets out for you tonight."

"Why are you up? Sunrise isn't for another hour."

Instead of looking at me as I sit on the edge of the bed, she inches away. My stomach drops at the reminder of how she really feels about our arrangement. "I'm always up early. Plus, some of the boys are coming over at noon for Thanksgiving."

"And your mom. "

It's like she slapped an ice cold towel on my back. My mom is sleeping just down the hall—the woman who has barely left her house in sixteen years—and I forgot about her. I should feel bad about that, but I don't.

"I need to start cooking. Go back to sleep. I'll wake you up later."

The covers slip as Emory draws in a deep breath and stretches her arms above her head. Her pale pink pajama top rises, and my gaze sticks on the exposed skin around her waist. I could get used to seeing this in the mornings. But I never will. She's not interested, and I can't be interested. I can't hurt her.

"I'll help," she says as she swings her legs over the side of the bed. "I'm a morning person too. I'm normally up by now anyway."

She glances over her shoulder, as if she can feel my stare, and I wish I could pull her back into bed. Forget my mom, my teammates, the holiday. Just spend the day with her. Here. But I watch her walk away.

Halfway between the bed and the bathroom, she pauses, pulling her hair free from its bun and sending a copper wave rippling down her back. It threatens to drag me under if I don't look away.

I keep my head down as I straighten the pillows and tuck the sheet on my side of the bed. Even when I hear her in the bathroom, I stare at my feet until I'm in the hallway. When the door is finally closed behind me, I lean against it and take a moment to catch the breaths I've been missing.

In the kitchen, I flip on the coffeemaker and silently gather everything I need. Normally, the weight of the knife in my hand and its steady click-tap on the cutting board as I slice through vegetables relaxes me. But each crisp cut today winds my muscles tighter until I finally jump at Emory's whisper as she slips up behind me.

"You really cook?"

"I love cooking." My voice is soft as I spread the chopped veggies on the bottom of the roasting pan and nestle the turkey on top of them. "I told you I was going to cook."

"I assumed you meant rich people cooking. Buy things that are already prepared. Then just heat it up and pretend you made it from scratch."

"If it helps me live up to your stereotype, I didn't raise the turkey or pluck its feathers. But don't tell anyone. I want to pretend I did it all from scratch."

"Funny. What can I do?"

I run through my mental list of dishes—turkey, mashed potatoes, gravy, greens, dressing, squash casserole, rolls. "There's a ham hock on the bottom shelf of the fridge. Get that out for me, please?"

"Yes, Chef." Emory grins and snaps a military salute

I try to look away as she walks to the refrigerator. Her black leggings and blue sweatshirt shouldn't captivate me like this, but when the fabric slips off one shoulder, revealing an entire galaxy of freckles, I fumble with the knife in my hand. And when she bends over for the ham hock, I have to set the knife down before I hurt myself.

By the time she comes back, my throat is so dry, I can barely manage a "thank you."

"Happy Thanksgiving, you two!" My spine stiffens as Mom's loud voice explodes the quiet morning. Her hair is rumpled, and she's still in her nightgown. But she's wearing the same smile from last night. "You guys are even cute as you cook together. What do you need me to do? Just as soon as I get some coffee in me, I'll help however I can."

"Mom… you…" I grasp for the words to start the conversation I need to have with her, but nothing comes.

"Morning, Michelle. I think what Kayden is trying to say is, help yourself to the coffee, but don't worry about helping out. We've got it under control." Emory elbows me in the ribs, and Mom laughs. I didn't know she was capable of that anymore.

"No, that's not what I'm trying to say. Emory, do you mind putting the ham hock in that pot?" I ask. "Add the collard greens. They need to simmer. I need to talk to Mom."

I walk to the living room, waiting for Mom to follow me, but she doesn't right away. She takes a coffee mug from the rack and fills it before crossing the room. She's so close to the windows, steam dances across them as she blows over the top of her mug.

"You weren't kidding. This is beautiful."

The mountains are burning with orange and red, and the sun is just starting to peek through one of the valleys.

"Mom, what's going on? After years of not showing up, you finally fly all the way to Salt Lake City to see me. Now you're smiling and happy and acting like nothing ever happened."

I see a hint of the old sadness on her face, and for just a second, she looks older than she really is. Seeing it makes me feel like I've stabbed her. "Did you ever make such a huge mistake that you don't even know how to apologize?" she asks.

"No."

"Of course not." She tries to draw her mouth back into a smile. "I don't suppose you make many mistakes. No thanks to me."

"I make plenty of mistakes, Mom. But I own them when I do. I don't just vanish. I apologize and do my best to make up for them."

Mom turns and looks to the kitchen, and I follow her gaze. Emory's head is down. All of her attention is on the onion she's dicing.

"I think that's what I'm trying to do," Mom says. "Trying to make up for it. I've been scared to tell you—afraid I might jinx everything—but I found a therapist a couple of years ago. I'm on medication now. I even have a job at the Boeing plant. Just assembly. Not using my degree, but it's decent money, and maybe I can eventually move up." She reaches out for me, but I back away. " Kayden? Say something."

"Why now?" My chest is so tight I have to force each breath. Shouldn't I be thrilled she's finally gotten help? That she's finally better? But those two words keep looping in my mind. Why now? "Why couldn't you have done any of this when I needed you?"

"Honey…" Her voice is as shaky as I feel. "I don't know. I'd give anything to get that time back with you. But I can't. And I'll never stop regretting that."

She steps beside me, but as soon as she rests her hand on my arm, I bolt away. I can't be near her right now. "Me either. I'll never stop regretting that either."

I'm walking away and on the elevator before I even know what I'm doing. Tears blur the doors as they close, but with each floor I descend past, it gets a little easier to breathe. When the elevator bumps to a stop and the doors open, I'm finally able to wipe away the tears.

The lobby is too bright for this time of day. Artificial white light glares down on the plastic turkeys, gourds, and bouquets of yellow and orange flowers that decorate every desk. I squint my eyes to all of it as I walk past.

The instant I step outside, cold bites at the back of my throat, reminding me of mornings alone on the ice. The only place I ever felt free when I was growing up. I draw in breath after breath until my lungs are burning and my body is shaking, trying to get that feeling back.

"Kayden?" I look up just as Emory wraps her arms around me.

I rest my cheek against hers. Neither of us says a word. We just stand in the middle of the Thanksgiving morning sidewalk holding each other.

"We don't have to go back up there," Emory whispers, her breath warm on the side of my neck.

"I'm okay," I insist.

"You don't have to be okay."

"Then maybe I'm not." I slowly let out a shaking breath. "But the boys are coming, so I'm going to pretend I am. For them."

"Okay."

I chuckle and take a step back, sniffling away the last of my tears. "I'm so glad you're—you're shivering." I take another step back so my eyes can take her in. "You're not wearing a coat. Or shoes."

"Neither are you."

I grab her hand and haul her inside. Her palm trembles against mine. As I mash the elevator button over and over, I curse myself for not noticing how cold she was before now .

"Kayden, it's fine." Her teeth are chattering. "I barely even noticed the cold. You're like a human furnace."

"In that case…" I pull her tight to me, slipping an arm around her back to hold her in place in case she tries to move away. But she doesn't. "Thank you for coming out."

"Of course," she whispers. "Just because this isn't real, doesn't mean I don't care."

This isn't real.

A pang shoots through my chest and leaves a hollow echo of pain behind. How many reminders do I need? No matter what I'm feeling, Emory doesn't feel the same.

As soon as the elevator doors open, I drop my arm and walk inside. "Check on the turkey for me while I start the mashed potatoes, please?"

In the corner of my eye, I see that Emory hasn't taken a single step, but I don't let myself slow down.