“Believe me, you do,” Marlow muscled past me, Blake in tow.
I trailed her to the kitchen. He grinned at me over her shoulder. I made a funny face back to which he responded with a happy shriek. A stab of pain shot straight through my skull at the noise, but that grin made it worth it.
“Mind holding him?” She already had Blake against my chest.
I took him and sank onto a barstool at the island.
She unloaded the reusable grocery bag she’d brought and rummaged through all my cabinets, banging a couple of skillets on the countertop.
“Please. Come to my house at—what time is it anyway?”
“Six thirty.”
“Six thirty. Make as much noise as you want.” I massaged my temples.
She tossed me a withering look before opening the refrigerator. “Please. Text me at—what time was it? Oh, one in the morning.”
“I won’t make that mistake again,” I muttered.
“Do you make a habit of getting drunk?”
“Have you seen me blitzed?”
“Not often. But I don’t know what you do most of the time.” She tossed some butter into a skillet. Three clicks popped as she turned on the gas eye.
“I hardly think you’re in a position to chastise me about my drinking habits.”
“Just say what you really want to.”
“I want silence. Is that too much to ask for?”
She unscrewed the cap to a pill bottle and snatched my palm, dumping two ibuprofen in the center.
“I don’t get you,” she said as she laid out strips of bacon in another skillet. “Yesterday you’re upset because you think no one wants you for family. Today you want silence. You can’t have it both ways.”
“Please, Wicked. I can’t handle this right now.”
Blake blinked up at me with big green eyes. He was such a handsome kid. My chest tightened with this foreign longing. I couldn’t handle that right now either.
Marlow dumped an omelet on a plate, cut it in half, and shifted one piece to another plate. She piled bacon on top and shoved it across the island toward me.
I tore off a piece of bacon with my teeth as she put a fork down beside me. She leaned against the opposite side of the counter and stabbed a bite of the eggs.
“Why couldn’t you go to your room?” She popped the omelet in her mouth, slowly chewed, and swallowed as if it pained her. She dropped her fork with a clatter and pushed her plate over to me.
“Is that supposed to make me want to eat this?” I eyed the eggs suspiciously.
“It tastes fine.”
“Looks like it.”
“Do you have any bread?” She scowled. And she was the only person I knew who was beautiful when she did.
“In the pantry.”
She stuck two slices in the toaster. I winced as I braved trying the omelet.
“What’s wrong with you? This is good.” I shoveled more of it into my mouth.
“Eggs. Ugh.”
“You still sick?” I held up a little bite to Blake. Half of it ended up on his shirt.
“No.” She made a face. “Can’t handle eggs right now.”
A hint of worry wound its way through me, even as I pretended it didn’t. She really needed to eat more. “Your loss.”
“Why couldn’t you go to your room?” she repeated.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” I knew exactly what she meant, but like hell I’d explain myself.
“Last night. You said you couldn’t go to your room.”
“I was out of my mind.”
The bread popped out of the toaster. Marlow searched the fridge and produced a jar of grape jelly. She smeared some on a piece and nibbled on the edge.
“I don’t believe you,” she said quietly.
“I don’t care.” I munched on bacon before I sighed. “Thanks for breakfast. I feel better and worse already.”
“Why do I bother?” She dropped her unfinished toast on my plate. “Let’s go, pumpkin. We’re already late.”
“I appreciate the endearment, but it’s going to take more than that to get me to like you.”
Without a word, she collected her son and marched out.
She’d done something nice for me . . . I think. And this time I’d been rude. She had a funny way of showing she cared. But she did.
Worse. I definitely felt worse.
Chapter Seventeen
Marlow
“You forgot to give me a key.”
Holt dug in his pocket. “Here.” He dropped the gold key in my hand. “I’m sorry. About yesterday.”
“No big deal,” I said as if it were a very big deal.
“Dad told me what happened. She keeps calling him—”
“This just gets better and better.” I sprayed the windows with cleaner and wiped them down.
“Marlow—”
“Don’t make excuses for him. Not one of you would listen to me when I tried to explain that I didn’t tell her about the wedding. Turns out you’ve all been hiding things from me.” Anger. There was so much anger all the time. I was sick of it. Sick of fighting all the time. But I didn’t know how to do anything else.
“Your track record hasn’t been the best.”
“Neither has yours.” I couldn’t stop spewing combative words. They just came out like I had some sort of tick. “How long have they been talking?”
“They aren’t,” he insisted.
But how did I know for sure?
“He should’ve mentioned it.” I sprayed cleaner in the exact spot I’d just done. “Looks like I’m not the only one with a communication problem.”
“You’re hard to talk to.”
I put a hand on my hip. “When have you tried?”
“All you do is say mean shit.”
It was mostly true. My brutal honesty had turned into something ugly. I should be able to handle Holt speaking the truth . . . but it still hurt.
“Then what are we trying to fix here?” I leveled him with a stare.
His mouth flattened. “I don’t know.”
“I see.” I finished the section of glass I was on and threw down the rag. They all wanted me to change completely. Couldn’t love my bitter and destroyed self. If it weren’t for my son, they wouldn’t have anything to do with me at all. “You all want Blake but not the bitch of a mother
