Текст книги "My Soul to Keep"

Автор книги: Kennedy Ryan

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Текущая страница: 10 (всего у книги 23 страниц)

MY HEART IS STILL RACING. WALKING out of the bowling alley was like running the gamut in a war zone, with us as the possible prisoners of war.

“That was crazy.” I turn in my seat to study Rhyson. His hands are relaxed on the steering wheel, but he keeps flicking glances to the rearview mirror.

“Yeah. We’ve still got a few trailing us. I want to lose ‘em before I take you home, or else they’ll be camped out at your place tomorrow.” He slants a grin my way. “You sure you want this? Paps staking you out and bugging you every time you leave the house?”

“No, I don’t want this. I just want to perform.”

“Yeah, well, the days where you get to just make music and not have TMZ in your face every time you go out are gone. At least if you’re good enough for the public to care.”

He looks over his shoulder and frowns.

“I’m gonna drive around for a little bit to shake them. Sound good?”

I nod, still a little freaked by all the lights, the intrusive cameras, the bodies pressing into us on our way to the car. All of them yelling, asking Rhyson who I am. Apparently word had spread pretty fast that not only were Jimmi, Grip, and several other celebs at the party, but the elusive Rhyson Gray too. His disguises when he comes to see me have always just been funny, but now I understand how little privacy he has without them.

My phone lights up in my lap with a text message.

“Hey, It’s Dub. Great meeting you tonight. This is my number. I’ll send you deets about the video.”

Rhyson glances from the phone in my lap back up to my face before turning his eyes back to the road.

“Well, that didn’t take long,” he says. “Guess he doesn’t just move fast on the dance floor, huh?”

My cheeks flush hot, but I remind myself I don’t owe Rhyson an explanation. Only I remember how ill I felt when I saw his arm draped around Bristol. Before I knew she was his sister, I wanted to rip her hair out strand by strand. So even though I don’t owe him an explanation, I offer one anyway.

“I gave him my number so he could send details for the video.” My knee bounces with the nerves I’m feeling. “That’s all.”

“That’s all?” He swivels his head in my direction, and the passing lights of the city illuminate his frown. “So he didn’t ask you out?”

“No, of course not. We just met.”

“I asked you out pretty soon after we met. Of course, you turned me down.”

It’s the first time since the beginning of our friendship that he mentioned that again. I can’t draw enough breath. The interior of the car closes in on me. I can’t go there with him. He can’t make me resolve this problem we’ve created over the last few months. Not right now. Not yet.

“Rhyson, you know why I turned you down.”

“Yeah, you didn’t want people to think that you succeeded because you slept with me, right?” His mouth distorts into a sneer. “High profile choreographer is after you now, and you just scored a video gig. Looks like being my friend is working out for you after all. All the benefits without the fucking.”

If we weren’t whizzing through the streets at fifty miles an hour, I’d jump right out. As it is, I’m trapped in the car with his anger and his resentment. They crawl over me and press onto my chest, oppressive and unfair. Instead of firing back at him, giving him the fight I’m guessing he wants, I turn my face toward the window so he won’t see the tears standing in my eyes. He doesn’t try to get another response from me, and I don’t offer any words for the ten minutes left in our ride to my apartment. It’s a fragile silence, and I think we both realize that breaking it with the wrong words could break everything. As frustrated as we are with one another, neither of us wants to risk that.

As soon as he pulls into the parking lot of my apartment, I’m out of the car almost before it stops rolling. I take the asphalt strip between his car and my front stoop at high speed. I’m fumbling with the keys when I feel him at my back. His big hand covers mine over the doorknob. He presses his chest to my back and rests his chin on my head.

“I’m sorry, Pep.” His voice, deep and low, rolls over me. It should soothe, but it incites. His body so close and so warm incites every part of me. I can’t believe how numb I was before I met him. My body, my heart, and my soul twist around one another, a three-stranded nerve waiting for his touch, his words, his attention.

So dangerous.

He turns me around by my shoulders until I’m forced to face him. I strain my neck back to look up at him.

“I didn’t mean it, Pep. You know I didn’t mean it.”

I swallow my hurt and force myself to speak.

“Then why’d you say it?”

He rolls his eyes up to the starless night sky before dropping his gaze to his feet, a breath huffing past his lips. He rests one forearm against the door behind me, bringing our bodies so close to touching.

“I was jealous,” he admits with steel pellets lodged in his voice.

“Rhyson—”

“No, listen.”

He dips his head until his lips hover over mine. If I open my mouth, I’ll taste his words. If I move even a little bit, we’ll share our first kiss. If I do nothing, I’ll imagine his tongue dancing with mine all night.

“I can live with being just your friend as long as everyone else is too.” His thumb caresses my jaw and he drops his forehead to rest against mine. “You know what I mean?”

I nod, rubbing our skin together. His nose trails down my cheek. He drags his lips over to my ear, and his breath feathers the hair there. I slump against the door because his warm breath invading my ear turns my knees to putty. He pulls back just far enough so he can see my eyes. He reaches up to brush the hair off my face and rests his hand at the curve of my neck.

“Don’t go out with Dub.”

“He hasn’t asked me,” I whisper between our lips.

“But he will.” He studies me in the light of my apartment stoop. “I would. I did.”

“Rhyson, don’t.”

“I’ve heard all your reasons for keeping things platonic for now, and I’m cool with it. For now.” He levels his beautiful eyes at me, and I’m afraid he’ll finally voice all those things his eyes always say. “But it only works if you’re just friends with everyone else too. The thought of you seeing someone else . . .”

His words fade, but his eyes become more vibrant, intense. He just shakes his head.

“Are you?” I have no right to ask, but curiosity ignores the reasonable voice in my head.

He raises one dark brow, captures the length of my hair in one hand and tugs until I have to look into his eyes.

“Am I what?”

“Seeing anyone?”

“You mean am I fucking anyone?” This time both brows go up. “’Cause that’s kind of all I do.”

Is that all he wants from me? Yes, I’m attracted to Rhyson, but it goes so much deeper than the physical pull. The thought of him giving himself to someone else that way while I figure this out leeches my heart. It’s quiet while I wait for his answer.

“I haven’t been with anyone else since we met, Kai.”

My contrary heart—the same one that is afraid to trust him and need him and depend on him—is perversely happy. I even smile, which I regret because Rhyson wastes no time using that smile against me.

“You like that?” he demands. “You like that I don’t think about anyone but you? That I jerk off in the shower every morning because you won’t give us a chance and I don’t want anyone else?”

A quick death for my smile.

“Rhys, no, I . . . you can be with anyone you want. It’s none of my business.”

“Is that what you want me to say? That it’s none of my business if you see someone else? If you fuck someone else? ‘Cause I won’t say that, Pep.” He leans in closer until the world is no bigger than this patch of cement we share right now, and the only air is between our lips. “When you and Dub were dancing, I wanted to shoot him through the knee cap.”

“Rhys, we’re dancers. It was just dancing.”

“I get that, but seeing you with someone else, even knowing it was nothing, drove me crazy. Not to have a right to be jealous drove me crazy.”

I can’t answer. Anything I say will tell him too much.

“And I saw the relief on your face when you realized Bris was my sister,” he adds.

I don’t deny it, but just return his unblinking stare for a few seconds until I can’t any longer. My eyes drop to the cement between our feet.

“And while we’re being honest,” his voice sinks to a heated whisper, “I was awake that morning we drove to Pismo Beach, when you touched me. When I touched you.”

His words are hot, but they freeze me. I don’t move an inch. The implications of that paralyze me. My mind floods with the sensations, with the touches, we shared that morning. How I pressed my breast into his palm. How I gasped when he twisted my nipple between his fingers. How my hands caressed the smooth, muscled plane of his back.

“You want me as badly as I want you, Pep. I’m just waiting for you to do something about it.” He takes the key I’d forgotten I was holding from my limp fingers and opens the door behind me. “Until then, we’ll keep pretending we’re just friends.”

He squats to brand my mouth with a quick kiss before turning and walking away. I should be in the house by now with the door locked behind me, but I watch until he’s in his truck and drives away, leaving me alone with just my thoughts and what’s left of that kiss. I still feel his lips against mine, a swift, sweet press that marked me. If I lick my lips, will I taste him? I rush into the house and head straight for the bathroom to wash my face. To wash that kiss away because if I have one taste, I won’t be able to stop.

I DREAMT OF MAMA LAST NIGHT. Not so much dreamt as remembered her while I was sleeping. I think my mind pulled out her memory to prepare me for what’s ahead—my first Thanksgiving without her. She was, in my mind, in my sleep, as vivid, as vibrant, as if she were still alive.

“Dammit!”

Mama swearing feels about as right as a nun in a whorehouse. I’m in my room rehearsing for Saturday’s dance competition when I hear Mama cuss for only the second time in my life.

She’s in the living room sitting on the floor, her back against the old saggy-cushioned couch she took from Grammy’s living room when she passed. Her head rests on the knees she has pulled up to her chest. Shards of glass litter the hardwood floor around her feet.

“Mama, you okay in here?”

Her head snaps up, and her beautiful dark eyes that I’ve always thought so mysterious brim with tears I know I’m not supposed to see. She runs her thumbs hurriedly over her cheeks, wiping the dampness on the one pair of jeans she always wears to clean the house.

“Kai Anne, I didn’t know you were here. Thought you and San were going to the movies.” She tries to smile, but it doesn’t take because her bottom lip trembles too badly. She pulls it between her small teeth and draws a long breath.

“We were, but I needed to practice. I was in my room going through some steps.” I gesture to the broken glass. “I can get that up, Mama. Let me just—”

“No.” Her response comes as sharp as the glass at her feet. “I’ll get it in a second.”

I settle beside her on the floor, pulling my knees up like hers. Even in the smallest things, I always find myself mirroring Mama. She’s the finest woman I know. It’s not just me who thinks so. The whole town does too. Daddy leaving and Mama staying so strong and true just about elevated her to sainthood in Glory Falls.

“I broke your ballerina.” It’s obvious the words don’t want to leave her mouth, but she pushes them out.

For the first time, I really study the pile of glass. Mama gave me that ballerina after I won my first dance contest. It’s tinted pink and so fragile she presented it to me wrapped in cotton. I’m disappointed, of course. I wanted to give that ballerina to my daughter one day, but considering what we’ve been dealing with since Mama was diagnosed, a broken ballerina isn’t such a big deal.

“Mama, it’s okay.” I lean my head against hers and loop our fingers together.

I have San, and Mama has Aunt Ruthie, but we mostly have each other. When Daddy left, it felt like Mama and me against the world. It sounds cliché, but to me, Mama has been everything. One by one, all the relationships that mattered to me have been stripped away. First Grammy, then Pops. Then Daddy. Mama’s the only blood I have left, and what we have goes beyond blood. It’s her choosing me and me choosing her over everything else all my life.

“I picked it up when I was dusting, and it . . .” There aren’t more words for long moments. Then she holds her hand out for me to see.

It trembles.

“You see that, Kai?”

“See what? Your hand?”

“The tremoring.” Mama pulls her hand into a fist and squeezes her eyes closed. “It’s getting worse. Sometimes I can’t control it.”

My fingers tighten around her hand I’m holding, and a vice tightens around my heart. I don’t want to hear this. I want to run back to my room and pick up where I left off with my dance routine. I shouldn’t have come in here. I could still be in there focusing on the movements. Focusing on my body, which never lets me down. Not like Mama’s body is betraying her now.

Heel, ball, toe.

“Kai, I know we haven’t talked about this much, but you know there’s only one direction with ALS.” Her small hand cups my chin and turns it toward her face, but I look down at the carpet so I don’t have to meet the painful candor of her eyes. “And that direction is down. It only gets worse.”

Ball, change, shuffle, ball.

I just nod and pull my chin gently out of her grasp. While the dance continues in my head, I give as little of myself to this conversation as possible, seeking shelter in the mental counts and motions that distract me.

“I think about Grammy and Pops a lot lately.” A limp chuckle escapes through the tight rosebud of Mama’s mouth. “How they’re probably looking down on us. Waiting for me.”

Shuffle, ball, heel, dig.

Mama turns her head to look straight at me. She’s the most exotic thing in Glory Falls. Those dark eyes, tilting and teasing. The black hair, usually braided and kept out of the way is loosened and wild and free, hanging to her waist. The pale gold honey of her skin. I never tire of looking at Mama. She’s delicate and fierce, and just the thought of losing her pounds my heart like a sledgehammer. I squeeze her hand because she’s right here. She’s real. I can touch her. Nothing’s taking her away from me. Not today.

Mama licks her lips and closes her eyes over a few tears that slip down her face. She swipes at her cheeks, but the tears persist. She finally drops my hand and wraps her arms around herself, a desperate clutch that shuts me out. An awful sound makes it past Mama’s clenched lips. It’s wrenched from a place so deep and low she’s only hit it once before in her life. A sound I haven’t heard in years. Not since the day Daddy left.

My body sets panic free like a runner. It sprints through my blood and pounds in my head and slicks my palms. My rock is crumbling before my eyes.

“I don’t want to die.” Mama’s words are crumbling too. Fragments, pieces, and syllables are broken behind her lips. “Baby, I don’t want to die. Not like this. Not this long, slow . . . I’m so scared of the day I won’t even know you. Won’t know I’m in the world.”

Pain clogs my throat like an old sink, but I flush the useless, worthless words out.

“Mama, I’m so sorry.”

“I keep . . .” Mama presses her forehead to her knees, the dark hair hiding her shoulders and arms. “I keep asking God why. Why me? Why now? I’m not old. I’ve been faithful. I’ve been good, and I just wake up every day asking Him, why?”

“And what does He say, Mama?”

Mama lost both parents within months of each other. Daddy, the man who was her husband and her pastor, skipped town with another woman, leaving only a note behind. She picked up the debris of her life and started over. She opened the diner with Aunt Ruthie to provide for me, to keep us clothed and fed and under a roof. I’ve seen her stand like a mountain, steadfast and immoveable, through it all. But today—in this moment—her faith, her hope, her strength are a landslide. I witness it all fall down.

She lifts her head, and even though she still breathes and she’s still here, something in her eyes seems already dead. Is it her faith? No, Mama’s faith isn’t dead, but it is weak from unanswered prayers and unanswered questions.

“Mama, what does God say?” I ask again.

“He doesn’t, baby.” She shakes her head, wipes away her last tear, and pulls herself to her knees to start gathering the shattered glass. “He doesn’t say a thing.”

THE SUN IS HIGH AND BRIGHT, but today feels like the dark side of the moon. The world is upside down with the sky overhead like a perfectly blue, serene sea, while the ground beneath me rolls and wobbles like tumultuous waves. I’m not sure how I’ll stay on my feet through this gorgeous California day, my first Thanksgiving here.

Aunt Ruthie has called me twice already. Maybe I should have figured out a way to get home so we could huddle together and comfort each other, but even scraping together enough money to fly home for Christmas is a stretch. If I can’t be with Aunt Ruthie, at least I’ll be surrounded by friends at Grady’s.

I know “friend” is Rhyson’s least favorite “F” word, but he has been that to me consistently, even after our argument. I woke up the next morning to a quote from

Talladega Nights waiting on my phone.

“‘I wake up in the morning and piss excellence.’”

I’d been too relieved that we could status quo for a little longer to dwell on what we’ll have to figure out very soon.

“You good in here?” San asks from the kitchen doorway. “Need help getting anything to the car?”

“Yeah.” I grab a mitt to pull a pan from the oven. “We need to load the pumpkin pies, yams, and this stuffing.”

I set the large pan on the stove and stir the gravy I left simmering.

“Oh! And biscuits.” Steam rises from the basket of biscuits I pass to him. “It’s a short drive to Grady’s, but I can pop them in the oven to warm if I need to once we get there.”

“Everything looks good.” San scoops up the pies and heads back out, but gives me one last look before he goes. “Especially you. You’ll have to fight Rhyson off with a stick.”

I fake exasperation—a quick eye roll should do it—but my heart, Benedict Arnold that it is, skips a few beats wondering if Rhyson will think I look good. I took time with my appearance, which I don’t often do. Most of the time Rhyson sees me at the end of a shift, with my hair limp, makeup gone, and wearing the jeans and T-shirt I don’t mind getting dirty.

Today’s a little different. For starters, I’m wearing a dress. It’s a peach shift, shapeless except for the hints of my curves underneath. It hits mid-thigh and has quarter-length sleeves. I’ve chosen simple peach– and mint-green leather flats since I’ll be on my feet a lot today helping Emmy. I give myself one more glance in the mirror, studying the dark eye shadow and nude lips before adding simple gold earrings and a necklace Grammy left me. I’ve piled and pinned my hair on top of my head, leaving just a few tendrils escaping the confines of my hair pins. Will he think I’m pretty? I know . . . why should I care when I won’t do anything about it even if he does?

But will he?

By the time we arrive at Grady’s, my stomach feels about as wobbly as the cranberry sauce I almost forgot to bring. Rhyson’s SUV is already out front. I assume Bristol will be here too. His sister and I didn’t exactly bond at Jimmi Dawson’s birthday party, and I’m hoping we get to know each other a little better today.

Emmy greets us at the door like a perfect hostess, her cornflower blue eyes are bright and welcoming, and her blonde hair pulled back in an elegant chignon. It’s only a matter of time before Grady pops the question. Rhyson and I have bets . . . and hopes . . . on a Christmas engagement.

“This all smells so good, Kai.” She takes a pumpkin pie from me and heads toward the kitchen. “Come on in and we’ll get everything settled. Rhys and Grady are in the studio, of course. Bristol is out by the pool on the phone. Thank you for helping with dinner.”

“No problem,” I say. “I loved it. I cooked all the time growing up. My mom owned a diner, and we cooked around the clock on holidays. So days like today, I really miss it.”

San brings in the rest of the dishes, and Emmy and I sort out what we have. Green beans, a salad, her turkey, which smells delicious and only needs carving.

“Thanks so much for doing the stuffing.” Emmy laughs while tossing the salad. “Mine is always so dry. I just can’t get it right.”

“I use my Grammy’s recipe. I haven’t made it since . . .” I made it last Thanksgiving. Mama had been just months from passing. Knowing it would be our last one with her hung a cloud over the holidays.

“Hey, you.” Rhyson walks in the kitchen, distracting me from my sad memories. He smiles at Emmy as she takes the salad through to the dining room, but walks over to me, tipping up my chin and studying my face. “You okay?”

“Yeah.” I give him a bright smile, but when he doesn’t smile back, I know I haven’t fooled him. “Starving. We’re close though. Just a few more things before we’ll be ready to eat.”

“Sure you’re okay?” He frowns, brushing his thumb over my cheekbone.

“I’m fine.” His concern only fans the emotion higher, sinking my voice to a whisper. “For real.”

“It’s okay if you’re not.” He captures my hand, twisting our fingers together. “Come on, Pep. Talk to me.”

I wish I could barricade myself from the probing care of his eyes. Stuffing these feelings, functioning on autopilot, and living on mute has become a habit since Mama died. It’s so hard to do that with Rhyson. He demands so much and knows when I’m holding back.

“I’m having a hard time. It’s my first Thanksgiving without my mom.”

He wraps his hand around my neck, dipping his head to catch my eyes.

“I’m sorry. What can I do?”

Even though emotion rises like the tide, filling my eyes and burning my throat, I manage a smile.

“You’re already doing it.”

The kitchen falls silent as we consider each other. He’s tamed his hair today . . . at least for now. His rebellious hair, collapsing around his face every few minutes, is one of my favorite things. He’s broad and strong in the black shirt that strains against the lean muscles of his shoulders. He looks so good, and I’m so weak today. That’s not the best combination.

Emmy comes back in smiling, her eyes speculating about what’s going on between us, and grabs a few more dishes.

“I think we’re just about ready to eat.”

When we enter the dining room, Bristol has one hand poised over my biscuits. Maybe my way to her heart will run through her belly.

“Hi, Bristol.” I set the dishes on the table and settle into a seat between San and Rhyson. “Good to see you again.”

She gives me a stiff smile, but looks at San like she wants him as a side dish.

“And who’s this?” Her smile is the same one I’ve seen Rhyson use in interviews and public appearances, beautiful and practiced. Aware of the charisma it carries and how it will affect everyone else. “I’m Bristol, Rhyson’s sister.”

“San.” He smiles in return, but holds back. I wish I hadn’t told him Bristol’s not my biggest fan. San’s as loyal as a German Shepherd. “Kai’s best friend.”

“Oh.” Her eyes drift back to me for a quick second. “How long have you two known each other?”

“Since we were seven.” He unfolds the linen napkin over his lap and angles a smile at me. “My dad was in the military, and when my mom passed, I went to live with my grandmother in Glory Falls. That’s where I met Kai.”

“Glory Falls?” Bristol puckers her perfectly arched eyebrows. “Where is that exactly?”

“Georgia.” I pass the tray of turkey to Rhyson on my left. “This turkey smells so good, Emmy.”

“Thank you again, Kai, for helping with dinner.” Emmy smiles at Grady. “This one sure wasn’t going to be any help.”

“Never claimed to be good in the kitchen,” Grady says with a laugh.

“I just got off the phone with Mother.” Bristol casts a cautious glance in Rhyson’s direction. The fork pauses on its way to his mouth, but there is no other indication that her comment bothers him. “She has quite the spread today too.”

“Bertie’s doing, I’m sure,” Grady says with a wry smile. “I’ve never known Angela to cook very much.”

“Maybe she’ll cook at Christmas.” Bristol turns her full attention to Rhyson. “Have you thought any more about coming home?”

Rhyson doesn’t stop chewing, but he raises irritated eyes to his sister.

“Not now, Bris.”

“It would mean so much to them,” she says in a rush.

“Let’s talk about it later.” Rhyson doesn’t look up from his plate. “These yams are really good, Kai. Can you believe I’ve never had them before?”

“Forget the yams,” Bristol snaps, her good humor evaporating. “I don’t understand why you won’t even consider coming home.”

“You wouldn’t, Bris.” Rhyson tosses his fork to the plate, and it clatters in the sudden silence. “They didn’t drag you through months of a court battle.”

“You dragged them to court.”

“To escape the life they forced on me,” Rhyson fires back. “You have no idea—”

“I was there too, Rhyson.” Bristol cuts in, her grey eyes angry slits. “You weren’t the only one hurt all those years ago. Our whole family needs to heal, don’t you think? That’s why Uncle Grady has agreed to come for Christmas.”

Rhyson does a double take, his eyes locking on his uncle.

“That true, Grady? You’re going to New York for Christmas?”

“Well, yes.” Grady sits back in his seat, holding Emmy’s hand on the table. “Your mother and father want to meet Emmy.”

Rhyson sucks his teeth and rolls his eyes.

“No, they don’t.” He tosses his napkin to land beside his plate. “There’s another motive, believe me. They’re using you to lure me back there.”

“It’s always about you, isn’t it, Rhys?” Bristol’s words come through clenched teeth. “It can’t just be that they want us to be a family again?”

“No, Bristol, it can’t because that’s not who they are. And I never wanted it all about me. They were the ones who cared more about profit than their own son’s well-being.”

“You certainly weren’t concerned about anyone’s well-being but yours, were you?” Bristol crosses her arms over her chest. “You took their livelihood when you left.”

“If I hadn’t left, there wouldn’t have been a livelihood, Bris. I was on the verge of collapsing, or have you conveniently forgotten that?”

“Oh, I haven’t forgotten anything. Not how they sacrificed all our lives so you could do what you wanted to do.”

“No, now I’m doing what I wanted to do. I was doing what they wanted me to do, and it was killing me.”

“Killing you? Dramatic much?”

“You’re just as toxic as they are, Bris. Sometimes I wonder why I even—”

“That’s enough.” Grady’s voice cuts over theirs, authority squashing the vitriol between the siblings. “Both of you. Don’t ruin everyone’s Thanksgiving with your bickering.”

Bristol and Rhyson don’t look away from each other for long seconds. Rhyson pushes one hand through his hair, like I knew he would eventually, disrupting it beautifully.

“I’m sorry, everybody.” He looks around the table until his eyes settle on me. “I hope we didn’t mess things up.”

I shake my head and offer a small smile to reassure him. Still, their anger chokes the air around us. I can’t help but contrast this dinner to the holidays growing up at home. How special it always was. Even when Grammy and Pops passed, and after Daddy left for good, Mama made Thanksgiving and Christmas magical for us. It hurts my heart that Rhyson never had that.

The conversation and eating resume all around me, but I find myself lost in memories of the past. The simple traditions Mama held onto that were so much a part of this season. Rhyson touches my hand in my lap, asking with a lift of his brows if I’m okay. I nod, but I’m not sure anymore.

“I need your recipe for these biscuits, Kai.” Emmy smiles with a biscuit on its way to her mouth. “They’re the best I’ve ever tasted.”

“They’re my Mama’s recipe.” Even with my heart heavy, I have to smile. “She and I would make biscuits every Thanksgiving morning. The pumpkin pies are her recipe, too. She loved to cook.”

“You didn’t want to spend Thanksgiving with your own family there in . . . what was it? Glory Falls?” Bristol’s voice makes it obvious that she wishes I had. What have I done to this girl? Before I can answer, Rhyson responds. Sharply.

“Kai’s mother passed away a few months ago, Bristol.” His tone holds a warning that he’s ready to break their temporary peace if she missteps.

Bristol’s frown fades and her remorseful eyes meet mine.

“I’m sorry, Kai,” she says softly. “I didn’t know.”

“It’s okay.” I bite my lip because I’m not sure my voice will remain steady. “I . . . she loved the holidays. I made her favorite today to go with dessert. Mint apple cider.”

“And we’d always put up the Christmas tree Thanksgiving night,” San says, his voice low and sober.

When death hits so close, so close it abrades your soul, there sometimes isn’t room or thought for what anyone else loses. I forgot that San was always at Mama’s table for Sunday dinners. She cheered the loudest at his baseball games. He was a pallbearer at her funeral. He lost her too. It’s not just my first Thanksgiving without Mama. It’s his too.

It hits me all at once. I made a batch of mint apple cider. I got up early and made Mama’s biscuits from scratch. My pumpkin pie will taste almost just like hers, but we didn’t say grace before we ate. We won’t visit a shelter together tonight to serve a meal to the homeless. She won’t keep me up decorating the tree before we can finally go to bed. There was only one Mama, and the world has lost her, but it keeps turning. But for me, I live in that void where her love and her voice and her kindness used to be. And in so many ways, even moving forward, I’m standing still.

I am suddenly aware of everyone’s compassion, this collective kindness for which I was unprepared. It penetrates the wall I use to insulate my grief and hide the lingering pain. I hate that these tears keep assaulting me when I least expect them. That sadness ambushes me. That the desolation Mama’s absence creates inside of me is inescapable, even here at Thanksgiving dinner in front of Rhyson’s family before we’ve even served dessert. And I hate this awkward quiet while they all try to figure out if it’s okay to move on or if they wait for me to get it together. Only this time I can’t. I’m trapped in this moment while I reach for my composure in vain.