Page 17 of Salvation (Clover-Hills #1)

Blake

W arm sunlight streams through the small break in my curtains, and I groan as I roll onto my stomach and stuff my face farther into my pillow.

The sound of birds chirping and sheer silence outside of my bedroom is what causes me to lift my head high enough to peek at the old alarm clock centered on my nightstand.

As tempting as it is to rest my eyes just a few moments longer, I know I won’t leave this bed if I don’t get up now, and the last thing I need to do is piss off a pregnant woman by being late to work on my first day.

I stumble as I catch sight of myself in my floor-length mirror.

Something bright and orange stuck to…my forehead?

I reach up and snag the piece of paper off my skin, flipping it around to see my mother’s familiar scrawl.

When you decide to join the living, there’s coffee

I scoff but can’t deny the small tug that lifts the corner of my lips. I don’t bother getting dressed yet, seeing as I have a little over an hour before I need to head to work.

The cold wooden steps bite and my bare feet make me wish I had grabbed a pair of slippers or fuzzy socks before making the trek downstairs.

The noise of pans clanking, my mother’s hum, and the smell of biscuits fills my chest with warm nostalgia.

Nostalgia that feels just as painful as comfortable if I let myself dwell on just how long ago something like this was so ordinary in my life.

The last step creaks, as it always has in this house once I hit the bottom of the stairs. “Morning, Mama.”

“Mornin’ Baby. How’d you sleep?” She cranes her neck to peer over her shoulder just as she finishes setting aside a wet, black pan onto the drying rack.

I was lucky to favor my mother’s features over my father’s.

Even with her messy curls thrown carelessly into a bun, bare face, and her ridiculously fluffy robe, my mom is beyond beautiful.

It still stuns me that she never remarried.

I know from her old high school war stories that there was more than one man envious of the attention my father won from her.

“Fine.” I raise an eyebrow as I flip the note in her direction.

She barely glances at her handiwork as she lets a small smile grace the corners of her lips.

For as long as I can remember, my mom would leave notes like these for me to find first thing in the morning.

Mainly on days when she knows I could use a little pick me up, or after nights I spent out late wandering the woods with Wesley.

Something I know she’s always pretended to be oblivious to.

After a day like yesterday, I’m less than surprised to wake up to one smack-dab on my forehead.

My eyes roam over the dining room and kitchen, snagging on the heaping plate of biscuits and gravy.

It’s been so long since I’ve sat at this table, and possibly even longer since I’ve had any of my mom’s cooking.

My mouth waters at the sheer idea of a home-cooked meal.

Neither Viv nor I could cook very well, so take-out was always our safest option.

And any meals I spent with Marshall consisted of plates only large enough to feed a bird; more often than not, I’d have to stuff my face with junk food when I got back to my apartment.

Alas, while burgers, pizza, or Chinese food are top-tier food groups for Vivienne and me, something about my mother’s cooking will always take the cake.

With reluctant movements, I pass the food on the dining table and head to grab a mug from one of the cabinets.

My fingers graze a familiar green handle, shocked to see it front and center.

It’s nothing special. A bulky, unsightly thing, truly.

But it’s a mug I made when I was little, and the little chip that still adorns the edge of it is what makes it my favorite.

Even the most fragile and cracked things hold beauty.

I spare a side glance to my mom, frowning when I go to reach for the black handle of the coffee pot, only to find it completely and utterly dry. “I thought you said there was coffee?”

She shoots me a look before leaning over and jabbing a button on top of the machine, brewing more rich, black liquid into the old coffee pot. “I thought you worked at a coffee shop?”

“Not my fault you’re a java junkie.” I outright cringe when I realize the word junkie probably was the last thing my mother should hear. I go to murmur an apology at the bad joke, but she silences me with a wave of her hand. “If we can’t joke about it, then it wouldn’t be in the past.”

Fair point. A comfortable silence falls over the kitchen as I wait for my coffee, and it stays that way as she finishes up the last few dishes in the sink and I settle into my spot at the table.

The scrape of my fork against the plate is the only sound until my mom’s voice cuts through the air.

“Sit on the porch with me when you’re done? ”

The fork freezes halfway to my mouth as her question takes me by surprise.

Not at the idea of sitting outside on a morning like this, let alone with my mom.

We have some of our best memories on the deck.

Reading, coloring, gossiping. But I’m quick to realize what this is.

My favorite breakfast. Coffee. A chipper but steady mood wafting off my mom at six in the morning.

My heart clenches, and it takes everything in me to meet her gaze. I know she wants to talk. To have a conversation about everything. But I’m not sure I’m ready for everything. So, I do what I do best. “I…um, I have to get ready for work. But tomorrow? Maybe?”

A part of my chest cracks wide open at the hurt that flashes across her face, but I busy myself with stuffing the last few bits of breakfast in my mouth and pushing away from the small, round wooden table. I hear her intake of breath, but I don’t stick around long enough to see what comes of it.

***

After I change for work, opting for a plain pair of light-wash jeans with my Bell’s shirt, I barrel down the stairs. I intend to escape before my mom can convince me to dally any longer than I want to. “Where are the keys?” I call out into the house, eyes scanning around the foyer.

I’m praying the old beetle even starts. It’s been rotting in the garage since the dawn of time.

“Dish by the front.” My mom hollers back, and I’m already ripping open the front door, shouting my goodbyes.

But my feet come to a screeching halt at the flowers I’ve nearly knocked over in my hurry.

A gorgeous array of flowers. I cock my head and drop into a crouch, gathering the vase into my hands and turning back into the house.

I hear my mom’s footsteps rounding the corner of the kitchen and make quick work of glancing at the note stuffed in the center.

Something almost as beautiful as you.

My brows shoot sky-high. “Find them, honey?” Her light steps slow as her brown eyes land on the gift, and I fail miserably to hide my smirk at her shocked expression.

“Looks like you have a secret admirer?”

She blushes. My mom actually blushes . “It’s probably just a friend from the center.”

Still, she rushes forward to snag them from my hands, tucking them against her chest. I hum in a way that tells her I’m not convinced and skim a skeptical eye over her frame. But instead of teasing her any further, I shrug and lean forward to plant a kiss on her cheek.

“Thanks for breakfast. See you later!”