Page 44 of Home Brewed (The Perfect Cup #1)

“I guess so, we could definitely use someone with her skills. I’ll make sure she’s on the roster. Does she need a place to stay?”

“I already offered her your spare room.” Mothers .

“Don’t be making faces at me!” How does she always know?

“Okay, mamá, she can stay with me, don’t worry. And I’ll give her work, at least until she finds somewhere else.” Lord knows we need the help anyway.

“Oh, thank you! Okay, I have to go, Armando’s cooking, and I need to make sure he doesn’t burn down the house.” She hangs up without so much as an I love you, but the chaos of her family tends to make her a little more distracted.

She might be right, though. As much as I want to be upset, this isn’t about me, it’s about Hazel.

It’s about Hazel feeling safe in her own space, and while I’ve done my best, I can’t fault her for doing what’s best for her.

I turn the car around, heading back to my house.

The entire drive I work on swallowing the horrible feeling I have that Hazel might leave, that she might take from me this beautiful light I’ve found.

It’s not about me.

It’s not about me.

It’s not about me .

I repeat my mantra the whole drive home, reminding myself that Hazel has never been unkind.

She’s not doing this to hurt me, she’s doing what she’s needed to do her whole life, which is taking care of herself.

One day, she’ll realize that I can, and want, to take care of her, too, but I’ll have to keep showing her until it clicks.

She walks through the front door nearly an hour later.

Her ears and nose are tipped red, and her cheeks are rosy.

She’s quiet as she puts her things away in the front hall, and as she does, I sneak up behind her to snatch her up into a hug.

Her startled laugh is the most beautiful thing I’ve heard all day.

“Hey, sugar, you’re home late.” I nuzzle my face into her hair as she rests herself against my taller frame.

“Yeah, I ended up needing to take a walk and my phone died.” I know it hadn’t, since I was able to track her, and my calls were still ringing through.

I don’t call her on it. She plugs in her phone in the living room.

I’m surprised when the lightning symbol pops up to indicate that it’s completely dead.

She’s very diligent about charging it. It must have died after my mild stalking.

“You seem a little… off.” She furrows her brow.

“Not bad, just like maybe something happened? Are you okay?” Her expression shutters.

“Sorry, I don’t want to pry. I’m here if you want to talk.

” I kiss her forehead, momentarily leaning mine against hers, rubbing my hands down her arms where they twine around my middle, where they fit perfectly.

“My mom called,” she says quietly. I haven’t heard a lot about Hazel’s mom.

I actually don’t even know her name, but I know enough to understand that she has probably had a shit afternoon.

I lead her into the kitchen, pulling cookie dough out of the fridge.

It’s her favourite kind, one with Funfetti and chocolate chips.

Her expression opens slightly at the sight, and she seems to deliberate in her head about what to say.

I’m quiet, not pushing her as I prepare her snack.

“Um, well, my mom is a user. A drug user. And an alcoholic. She doesn’t often have very nice things to say.

” Her words are detached, emotionless. I leave her space to keep talking if she wants to, “She only calls me when she’s…

when sh e’s been partying.” Her voice thickens, and I want to hold her so badly, but I don’t know if she’ll be able to get out the words she needs to if I do.

“Did she say something?”

“Yeah, you could say that,” she laughs mirthlessly, a sound that makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up.

My sweet, smiley girl sounds so disconnected from herself.

“She told me how stupid I was to let Justin cheat on me, that I’m only valuable if I’m with someone, that I’m destined to be alone and cause misery for others, the usual stuff, really.

” Her sarcastic smile breaks tiny pieces off of my heart.

“Then she got so delusional, she started talking like I was still in high school, still living with her. The call only ended when she finally passed out. Usually, I can talk her down a bit more. I didn’t have it in me today.

” I cave when her voice cracks, coming around the kitchen island to gather her in my arms, tucking her head under my chin.

The shuddering of her shoulders as she tries to collect herself is painful. I want to tell her to let it out, I want to tell her to scream if she has to. Instead, I settle for her letting me hold her, protecting her from her hurt as much as I can.

“I’m so sorry, baby. You don’t deserve that. I hope you know you don’t deserve that,” I pull back and search her face.

“I know,” she whispers, like she’s trying to convince herself.

“Do you want to have a movie night? Take your mind off of it?” I offer. I figure we’ll do takeout from the new chicken place down the road, have some greasy comfort food.

“Can we watch that other Detective Poirot movie?” She bites her lip as she looks up at me.

“Absolutely, and you can talk as much as you want to, I won’t even complain.” She presses her face into my chest and hums. We can talk about everything else another day. For now, I’m going to be content with her in my home, in my arms, and taking up every little corner of my heart.