Page 23 of Too Sweet

A fraction of the tightness in my chest loosens, but most of the shame is still there. Instinctively, I rub at my breastbone. I hate feeling like this. More importantly, I hate that I made them all feel like shit, too.

“We’re sorry, Hot Girl.” Nicky takes my hand, interlacing our fingers. “We shouldn’t have gone all out and made a big deal about your birthday without talking to you first.”

I offer him a weak smile, my eyes watery with unshed tears. I don’t want to make them feel worse. But I can’t fight back the anxiety and anger that stir up for me on February fourteenth when there are balloons and a banner reminding me of the day.

I wanted this year to be different. Up until twenty minutes ago, I was sure it would be. Hell, for the first time in my adult life, I was excited about this day.

Nicky strokes his thumb over my hand. “We popped every balloon. We tore down the streamers and the banner. We stashed the presents away. We’ll put the cake out in the trash tomorrow before we leave.”

I tip my head up to meet his gaze. “There was cake?”

Kylian leans over and runs his nose along my jaw. “Vanilla buttercream with extra sprinkles.”

My heartstrings tug at the thoughtfulness. They went all out. I hate that I can’t just enjoy this for what it is.

“Talk to us, Mama,” Kendrick encourages. “What’s going on?”

Sighing, I sit up, then rise to my feet and stretch out my arms. The blanket I was cuddling under falls to the deck. Nicky tsks and whips his hoodie off over his head.

“Here,” he insists, helping me put my arms through it.

I smile at him appreciatively. “Thanks.” I cross my arms and steel my spine, grateful for the extra warmth. It’s way too cold to be out here without some sort of layer or blanket.

“So Nicky’s allowed to give you something?” Decker mocks.

My eyes flit to his face, shooting daggers at my dense-as-hell husband.

Kendrick lightly shoves him in the chest. “You just don’t know when to quit, do you, Cap?”

With an exasperated exhale, I look to each of them. Then, before I lose my courage, I dive in and try to explain as quickly and succinctly as I can.

“You already know my mom was a piece of work.”

My generous assessment of the woman who birthed me earns a chorus of grumbles.

“She left me home alone a lot when I was growing up, from as early as I can remember. Probably even earlier than I remember, if I’m being honest.”

One of the guys growls.

I close my eyes, hold up both hands, and shake my head. “I know.I know. Please just let me get through this.”

Gentle fingers brush the side of my face, tipping my chin back. I assume it’s Nicky or Kendrick. When I open my eyes, I’m met with stoic, sincere obsidian irises. “We’re listening, Siren.”

Hope floats inside my chest. I can do this, and I owe it to all of them to try and explain. Squaring my shoulders and standing to full height, I continue. “She only bought groceries once a month. I learned at a young age to ration the food to make it last. Thankfully my school district had a food assistance program. I had free breakfast and lunch as long as I made it to school.”

My stomach twists at the memory. “When I was in second grade, my teacher took it upon herself to reach out to my mom and ask if she wanted to provide the Valentine’s Day snack for our class party since it coincided with my birthday.”

The weight of the memory clogs my throat, filling my gut with dread, even all these years later. Apprehensively, I whisper, “Ididn’t ask the teacher to do that. I didn’t even know she had called my mom until the night before.”

Locke’s arm snakes around my low back as he pulls me into his side. “It wasn’t your fault,” he murmurs into my hair before planting a kiss on the top of my head. It’s the reminder I need.

“When I came home from school on the thirteenth, my mom told me what the teacher asked her to do. Surprisingly, she had already gone out and bought two dozen red-frosted cupcakes from the convenience store. When she showed them to me, she told me I better enjoy them, because that was the last thing she was buying for me until her EBT card reloaded the next month.”

I can still smell the stench of stale smoke that clung to our trailer like a cancer. I can see my mother sitting at her perch in the front room, carelessly flicking ash all over the couch that doubled as my bed.

Bile rises up my esophagus, threatening to spill over.

“Jo.”