Page 8 of Meet Me In The Dark

My mother—my real mother—squeezes gently.

“I’m sorry.” Her voice is thick with guilt she doesn’t deserve. “I shouldn’t have told you. You don’t owe her anything either. You’ve done more than enough for her.”

Nodding, I push back my chair and stand up before this conversation can go any further. I need to regain control of myself today before I fall deeper into the dark hole I’m staring into.

“Julian,” she sighs.

“I’m fine. I promise.”

She stands and presses her small hands to my face. “You’re always fine. That’s the problem.”

I plaster on a smile that doesn’t fool her, but maybe I might fool myself if I keep it in place long enough.

Bending down, I kiss her cheek and grab my keys from the table. “Tell Dad I’ll be back to see him. Maybe give him a couple of days to get the smell of that traitor’s house off him first.”

She beams with pride back at me.

“Text me when you get home,” she calls as I head for the door.

“I’m thirty-four.”

“And still my baby. I carried you in my heart long before you set foot in this kitchen.”

Three

Celeste

I’ve been awake for all of fifteen minutes, and already, Madison is in my kitchen making a mess.

“Did you know breakfast margaritas are a thing?” she calls over her shoulder as she flips a pancake.

I blink at her from my spot on the couch, where I’m swaddled in my blanket. “That sounds made up.”

“It’s not.” She gestures toward the cocktail glass on the counter. “It’s just a margarita, but in the morning. And with orange juice.”

“That’s just a regular margarita with scurvy prevention.”

“Exactly!” She winks and takes a sip before flippinganother pancake.

This is our weekly brunch tradition, but instead of going to our usual spot, brunch has come to me, complete with Madison’s questionable cooking skills and concerning drink choices.

Honestly, I’m just grateful for the company. The past few days of recovery have been boring. Netflix has asked if I’m still watching too many times to count, and the only thing keeping me entertained is the occasional painkiller-induced hallucination.

Madison plates a stack of pancakes and slides them onto the counter with a flourish. “Voilà! Gourmet brunch.”

I squint at the pile. “Why are they all different sizes?”

She shrugs. “I got bored. It’s abstract art really.”

Before I can comment on her pancake Picasso, the front door swings open, and Emmy walks in, looking exhausted. Her five-year-old son, Levi, is attached to her hip with his arms wrapped around her neck.

“Sorry I’m late,” she mutters, dropping her bag on the counter. “This one couldn’t go to school today because he’s…” she trails off as her son blinks up at her with big, knowing eyes. “…Sick.”

That’s code for something.

I sit up and wince as my stitches protest. “Sick?”

Emmy nods. “Mmhmm. Sick.”