Page 52 of Severed Heart

Tonight, I caved and gave in to participating in our Christmas Eve tradition of watching our favorite holiday flicks, suffering through Mom’s choice ofIt’s a Wonderful Lifebefore we got to mine.

Though unspoken, Mom glanced at the front door every few minutes in wait for her husband before eyeing the phone for his nightly pickup—a duty I’ve been relieved of permanently after missing one too many calls.

Mom and I still aren’t talking much, but I’ve recently realized that freezing her out isn’t something I’m completely capable of. That only hits further home as I pull one of our quilts off the loveseat and cover her with it. Before I pull my hands away, she grips one and squeezes before opening her rapidly watering eyes.

“Merry Christmas, my beautiful son.”

“Merry Christmas, Mom.”

She turns and nestles into the recliner as a tear glides down her temple. The lump in my throat at the sight of it only fuels the paving of another brick in the wall I’m reinforcing with Carter on the other side.

Glancing back down at my phone as I head to my room, I frown at the compilation of Delphine’s text. One I must have missed while watching the movies. Though it’s not hard to decipher, it’s sloppy as hell. My smile disappears when I realize she must be drunk. Has to be.

Minutes later, I’m peering through her sliding glass door to gauge our board and frown when I see the soldiers have been knocked off and are scattered on the kitchen floor. It’s then that I spot tiny feet and inch along the glass door until Delphine comes into view, slumped against the cabinets beneath her kitchen sink. In seeing her, I waste no time stepping into the house and into the kitchen, noting every surface littered with flour, sugar, and other baking ingredients. Delphine sits on the floor, cradling measuring spoons in her hands, eyes glossy. She barely acknowledges me as I slowly kneel in front of her. But the second her eyes focus on me, her face lights up. “Tyler! Can you help me?”

Her expression and tone have me eagerly agreeing. “Sure.”

“Will you read it out loud?” she asks, producing a tattered brown index card from the mess on the counter before thrusting it toward me. “There is English translation on the back.”

“Sure.” I read off the first line, which is hell to make out.

“Say it again, one cup?” she prompts.

“No, two cups, and I think, two teaspoons. The writing is messy.”

“It’s Celine’s. She writes good English.”

“I beg to differ.”

She frowns back at me. “You beg for what?”

“It’s an expression that means I have a different opinion.” I thrust the card toward her. “Becausethisisn’t legible.”

“Non, you read it.Out loud,” she insists again, pushing my hand away.

“All right, two cups of flour and I think ... two teaspoons of baking soda.”

“Okay.” She takes a steadying breath as if readying herself for much more than baking. “Two cups,” she says, measuring the flour, biting her lip in concentration before sorting through the spoons. Putting the spoon down, she lifts the cup again. “This?”

“No”—I grin—“two teaspoons of the powder now.” I frown at the writing. “I think this means teaspoon.” Thumbing the card, I flip it toward her. “Delphine, it’s right here. Just read it.”

“I want you to read it!” she snaps, and I jerk back in surprise, seeing her immediate regret.

“It’s okay,” I tell her with pinched brows, “don’t get frustrated. We’ll figure it out.”

“Celine made these cookies for Dominic. He loved them,” she explains a little manically as she sorts the spoons for the right one. As she rattles feet away from me, I can both see andfeelher desperate need to get it right before she turns back, reads my expression, and deflates.

“It doesn’t matter.” Her voice shakes as she relays this before tossing the spoons into the sink and stalking off, my eyes catching on the empty pint of Smirnoff at the top of the trash. She’s drunk, but it’s clear something or someone has triggered her.

“Delphine,” I call at her retreating back as she rounds the counter, lifting her hand. “It’s fine, Tyler. I’ll play Battle with you tomorrow.”

“If you’ll wait, I’ll help.”

“It’s late,” she says more forcefully as I scour the kitchen.“It doesn’t matter, will not matter to him.” I catch her faint whisper as she retreats down the hall.

“Merry Christmas,” I utter, not even sure she’s aware of it, and knowing the him she’s referring to is Dom. Evidence he was here by the sight of her new cell phone, which is covered in flour—as if she’s been texting with coated fingers for hours. Picking it up, I frown when I see she only sent one text—to me. That truth ignites my chest. After cleaning the crust off the letters and wiping the screen, I leave it on the table where I found it. Staring in the direction she fled, I hear running water start between the walls, which means hours of disappearance—if she reappears at all.

Wanting to finish the recipe for her, I scrutinize the worn-out card until my vision doubles, and I’m forced to raise my own white flag. Sliding the door closed behind me shortly after, I eye the fallen soldiers as an ill feeling snakes its way into me. Some internal warnings going off in both head and chest. And I’m right because it’s the last time I see her for weeks.