When Sky Breaks: Burn & Break Duet Book 2

30. Sky

August staresat my outstretched hand with such trepidation. If the mood wasn’t so heavy, I’d probably laugh at his expression.

“You remembered it was my birthday?” he asks, still eyeing my hand like it’ll bite him.

I finally just grab his, pulling him to his feet. He towers over me and still looks every bit the little boy he once was. Minus the heart-stopping jawline and sexy tattoos.

“You’ve been hard to forget.” I wink, desperately wanting to rid him of the sadness.

“Would you believe me if I said my mom forgot again?”

The utter hurt and devastation on his face guts me. Pain from all those years ago still reflects in his eyes, and no matter how crushing Chase’s death will always be for me, seeing August carry all this weight cuts to my core.

No one seems to choose him.

Even I gave up on him, the notion needling its way into my mind.

It was a complicated situation and out of the ashes, there’s rebirth. New beginnings. Coming back home made me face my past and try to move on from it. August is stuck in this cycle of guilt, the burden of his actions getting in the way of him seeing just how far he’s come.

“I’m sorry she forgot. When she does remember, I bet she’ll feel terrible about it.”

August lifts his brows in disbelief before following me from the pew. We make our way to the kitchen just beyond the fellowship hall, leaving behind the beautiful serenity of the sanctuary. I’ve never been drawn to religion, especially growing up in the household I did, but I often wonder if August and I were put in each other’s paths for a reason. Being where the memories compound one on top of the other, it’s hard to deny just how intertwined the two of us really are. The tragedy, the fucked up circumstances. Time and distance haven’t dulled all the quiet recollections we share.

I flick on the lights, the fluorescent pinging to life, one after another, in the large kitchen.

“Let’s prep first, and then I’ll bake.”

August quirks a lip. “What makes you think she has stuff in here for a cake?”

I roll my eyes and glance over the instructions Louise left on the counter to know where to start. “Louise and desserts are practically synonymous, even I know that, and I’ve only been here once with you.”

We start with the first item on her list—rolling all the silverware into napkins.

August rumbles out in that deep voice of his. “I remember that day. We played on the playground and Mira’s dad busted us.”

I laugh and toss my finished silverware into the wicker basket. “He wasn’t joking either. I thought he was going to tell on me to Foster.”

“I would’ve taken all the blame.”

My hands pause their movements, and I roam his face. The sincerity almost knocks me off my feet. It’s clear he would sacrifice himself for anything, and that alone makes me want to bake the best damn birthday cake I can.

While August sets to the rest of the tasks on Louise’s list, I scour the cabinets and let out an excited holler when I find a box of chocolate fudge cake mix and frosting.

August grins from behind a mountain of wrapped sandwiches on a tray before shoving them into the fridge. “Jackpot?”

“You’ll have to wait and see.”

Once the cake is in the oven and most of the tasks are complete, I stand in the kitchen as my palms grow slick with sweat.

What am I doing here?

I’m smiling and laughing with a man I loathed for years. But the shroud of August has lifted and underneath is a person hurting just as much as me. Foster and Trek both told me I love to take on the strays of the world. August and I are the strays, and for a while, all we had was each other.

Music fills the silence, bringing me back to the present. August had turned on a tiny speaker in the counter’s corner and found a station playing slow tunes. The timer dings for the oven and I spring off the countertop where I was sitting and, grabbing some hot pads, take out the cake.

Piping hot and steaming, I set it near the stove and fan toward me the chocolaty scent.

August, at my side, leans his head down, taking in a big whiff, his eyes closed and his mouth arranged in a serene smile. “It smells good.”

“Glad to know my skills transferred over from when I was nine.” I meant it as a joke, but he turns his head and regret clouds his eyes.

“No one should cook for themselves that young.”

Maybe, maybe not.

I shrug. “No parent should forget their kid’s birthday either, but you and I were both dealt shitty hands in life. It’s okay to joke every once in a while or we’ll never get over it.”

I slide past him to locate a spatula for the icing, and he snags my wrist, his long fingers curling, branding me with the heat of his palm.

“Thank you,” he says, running his thumb along my sensitive skin.

I try to breathe evenly, but the more I’m around him, the harder it gets to pretend I’m not affected by him or his tender touch. “You haven’t even tasted it yet. It could taste like ass.”

He smirks, and I bat at his arm, laughing at his lewd mind. “For real, though, it could taste terrible.”

August shakes his head, his hand still on my wrist, and me not resisting whatsoever. “I highly doubt there’s anything you make that’s bad. I’ve had bad, trust me.”

There it is again. The punch to the gut. This man lived in his car for a year, if not more, and did his best with what he was given. He hardly complained and often would look out for others above himself. Whether or not it was the guilt driving his actions, August, at his core, is a good person. He just has to see it for himself.

The petals of forgiveness unfurl even more as I find the icing and spatula. Each swipe of chocolate, a piece of my walls crumble. I keep it to myself as I scrounge for a packet of candles hidden in the back of a drawer. I light a few candles and bring the cake over to the front counter.

August stares down into the flames of the candles, wavering in the air.

“Make a wish,” I whisper and nudge him on the shoulder.

He turns, his stubble highlighted from the light of the candles, his eyes hypnotic. “I’m afraid. But the possibility of it coming true…”

I swallow the lump in my throat and nod toward the candles. “Hurry before they melt into the cake.”

One more heavy look. And then he blows them out.

“Happy birthday, August,” I whisper.

Smoke curls around our faces as the wax scent of candles mixes with the chocolate of the cake and icing.

August’s gaze sinks to my lips and back to my face before he clears his throat and holds out a fork. My breathing increases as I take it and dig into the soft dessert.

Together, we take a bite, and he groans, leaning against the counter. “That’s so good.”

Using the food in my mouth as an excuse not to speak, I nod at his statement. It’s just a piece of cake, but I preen anyway with his praise, his groan putting images in my head that shouldn’t be there.

“What’s left is for you,” I say, distracting myself from the chocolate on his bottom lip and go find some throwaway container to pack up the rest.

To remove myself from his penetrating eyes, I clean the warm pan and set it to dry on a towel.

“Thank you again,” he says.

“You don’t deserve to celebrate your birthday alone. I was happy to do this for you.”

Nothing but the soft sounds of water and music drift between us. My heart hurts knowing his own mother forgot the day he was born. How he’s managed to remain as tender a man is beyond me.

I turn from the sink and rest against the counter. Our gazes tangle, each searching for a meaning, a sign we shouldn’t ignore.

“Why are you so selfless? I’m not sure I deserve anything from you.” The crack in his voice slices deep.

August was the first person to show me I truly mattered and had value. Who has shown that to him? As much as my conscience was shredded by the truth, he paid an even bigger price. His soul.

“Everyone deserves a second chance. I’ve always believed that. Maybe not at first, but I do now.”

August bows his head before tilting it back up, his eyes glossy with unshed tears, his bottom lip being gnawed to death by his teeth.

My chest tightens, and I want to go to him, to comfort him, but I stay rooted to the spot.

The air shifts as he strides over, tunneling his hands through my hair, forcing me to see him in all his stunning glory. The warmth of him presses me into the edge of the counter and I grip his waist.

“Leave him, Shortcake. Please,” August begs, his voice rough and low. His throat bobs and his body shakes. “He isn’t the one for you.” Those eyes sear me—so intense, so full of conviction…and promise.

My breaths slip out in short bursts, my heart stuttering in my ribcage. “Then who is?”

He rests his forehead on mine, and the warm ghost of his words skates across my lips. “Me. I want to be the one for you. I want to be better for you—because of you. I still love you. So fucking much it hurts. I always have and I always will. And I think you still love me, too.” He brushes a soft kiss over my temple.

This bold admission steals into my mind and conjures all the lives I’d hoped we would’ve lived. Every morning, every night, all the hours in between.

Reality strikes and I suck in a sharp breath.

“This is a lot to think about. I—I think I need to go. Go and think. I just—this is a lot.” My voice shakes as I watch the pulse in his neck race.

“I don’t mean to overwhelm you, but I told you I can’t hide my feelings anymore. Certainly not where they concern you.”

Biting my lip, I separate us before I do something I can’t take back. “I’ll, uh, I’ll text you later? Don’t forget your cake,” I stammer, grabbing my purse and squeezing past him and his tall frame to exit the kitchen, each step away not giving me the peace I was hoping to find.

The brisk air smacks me in the face as I burst through the church doors and jog across the parking lot. Before I crumble under the pressure of the evening, I slide into my car and steady my shaking hands by gripping the steering wheel.

He still loves me.

Do I still love him?

After reeling from August’s confession and rising from my emotional turmoil, I take a turn out of the church lot and note that until he mentioned Johnny, I didn’t think of him.

Not once.