Page 66

Maybe there is another way to break down her walls.
FIFTEEN
NAOMI
“My mom used to make the best wraps,” Brandon says. “She’d pack them for my lunch every day until well… she wasn’t there anymore.”
I glance at him. He never talks about his family, not really. Just vague mentions here and there always tinged with an edge of bitterness.
“I’m sorry.” The words feel hollow, inadequate in the face of his grief. “That must have been really hard.”
He shrugs, but I can see the tension in his shoulders, the way his jaw clenches. “It was a long time ago.”
But some wounds never really heal, do they? They scab over, waiting for the slightest touch to rip them open again.
I know that better than anyone.
“What was she like?” I can’t stand the thought of him retreating back into himself, of losing this rare glimpse into the man beneath the bravado.
A real smile touches his lips this time, small but genuine. “Always had a million projects going on, always dragging us into her latest adventure. But she made everything feel special, you know? Like every moment mattered.”
“She taught you well.” I take another bite of my wrap. “This is really good.” And it is. I don’t know why.
“Don’t sound so surprised. I’m a man of many talents.”
“Cooking and being a pain in the ass?”
“Among other things.” His gaze drops to my lips, and heat creeps up my neck.
“So, what was the first thing she taught you to make?”
“Pancakes.” He chuckles, the sound warm and rich. “I was five, and I wanted to make breakfast for Father’s Day. Mom woke up to the smoke alarm going off and me covered in flour.”
I can’t help but smile at the image of a tiny Brandon, all wide eyes and messy hair, proudly presenting a plate of charred pancakes. Would he make me some again?
“She didn’t even get mad,” he continues. “Just laughed.” The playful tone in his voice evaporates. “And then Dad, the person in question, came down… He got mad. Real men don’t cook. They run companies.”
“Is that why you stopped?” Shit.
His eyes snap to mine. “What’s with the twenty questions, cupcake? Trying to psychoanalyze me now?”
“No, I just—” I bite my lip. “I get it, okay? Sometimes, it’s easier to… stop. To push away the things that remind you of what hurts.”
“Like you push away food?”
The comment stings, but I deserve it. “Like that.”
“That was?—”
“True?” I pick at the edge of my wrap.
“When was the first time?”
Clara and Harry. “I was eight. At a funeral.” Both dead.
The memory rises like bile, threatening to choke me. “The dress was black, scratchy against my skin. Shoes too tight.” My voice sounds distant, hollow. “And there were cinnamon rolls.”I swallow hard, the phantom taste coating my tongue, my teeth, and the back of my throat.
I didn’t make it to the bathroom that time and threw up in the bushes outside the church, my mother’s hand tight on my arm, her nails digging into my skin, telling me to stop because people were watching.