Chapter 23
Kylian
My dad always made pancakes on Sunday mornings.
Fluffy monstrosities with crisped edges, smeared with butter and doused in syrup.
I’d sit at the kitchen table and watch the way he warmed the skillet, waiting until the butter was sizzling to spoon out the batter.
He was a patient man every day of the week, but he was different on the weekends. Relaxed. More playful.
Easy like Sunday morning, he’d say.
Mom would sleep in, eventually joining us when the smells from the kitchen overwhelmed the house. Sometimes it was a good smell. Sometimes it wasn’t. Dad usually burned at least one batch of pancakes.
I guess not everything was easy on Sunday morning.
She’d shuffle into the kitchen, wrapped in her robe, and tousle my hair before she sauntered toward my father.
He’d wrap her in his arms, and they’d stand in front of the stove, rocking back and forth in an awkward dance as Dad sang a song from the 1980s under his breath.
The references to sorcery were off-putting enough. But then there were the words.
I’d pull up the lyrics on my tablet, repulsed by the glaringly bad grammatical error in the middle of the chorus.
Clocking in at 161 beats per minute, the time signature was expectantly peppy. It wasn’t a bad song, per se. Fine, even. But the words.
References to magic and arousal. Seductive lyrics paired with a seemingly innocent beat. I didn’t get it. I didn’t like it. I didn’t understand any of it: the lyrics of a love song, or the impractical, sickly sweet Sunday morning ritual between my parents.
As a child, I watched my parents often. Observing them, studying how they interacted. Pondering what, exactly, was so appealing about cohabitation, compromise, and all the other complications that came along with a relationship.
None of it made sense back then. It wasn’t black and white.
I would scowl at those song lyrics, desperate to derive meaning from the words my dad recited to my mom every weekend like a solemn vow.
I didn’t understand any of it until this moment. Until her.
Over the top rim of my glasses, I catch sight of Jo just as she stretches her arms overhead, inadvertently pushing against the stretchy black fabric of her tank top.
Fuck. She has great tits. I didn’t get to spend nearly enough time savoring her this afternoon.
Shaking my head, I tear my attention away and scan the boat, stopping on Decker, who’s watching me from the bench seat opposite mine.
Although watching is too mild a term for the way my best friend’s glowering right now.
He works his jaw back and forth. It’s one of his tics. One I’ve seen many times when he’s facing an adversary or opponent.
Pretty sure that look has never been directed toward me.
“You good?” he grits out, averting his eyes to glance over at Kendrick as he slows the boat.
The dock is already packed, PWCs and boats of all sizes lined up at attention. We don’t have any trouble tying up, though. They always reserve a spot for the guests of honor.
Today’s commitment is two hours, but if the quantity of vessels is any indication, we’re in for a long afternoon.
“All good,” I reply, hopping to my feet to help Kendrick on the dock.
“Sorry you’re stuck babysitting,” Decker tries, rising to his feet and squeezing my shoulder as we climb out.
He’s digging. Just changing his approach. Maybe he thinks I won’t catch the subtle questions or prompts. Sure, I’m not usually good with people—they don’t always make sense like numbers and stats—but I am good with my people.
Decker wears his emotions on his sleeve. He’s passion and fire, joy and pain. Quick to anger. Fast to forgive. He thinks he hides it well, but even I can read him easily. He only knows how to feel deeply. He approaches everything with intensity, full stop.
He’d make a shit poker player.
But he’s an excellent friend.
I turn to him and hold his gaze, cocking one brow and calling him out without actually saying a word.
“I just want to make sure…” He trails off.
And that’s it. He won’t push it. At least not now. Not right before an event.
He won’t say it, but we both know what he’s thinking.
He doesn’t have a read on her. Or on me and her together. I’ve never shown any sort of lasting interest in someone like this. He’s not in control, and he’s worried.
And rightfully so.
I know Decker better than almost anyone. But he knows me, too.
He sees the way I look at her. Notices how I’m trying harder and putting in the effort when she’s near.
And he’s worried that I’m spiraling.
Not in the traditional sense—I don’t unravel and topple completely out of control.
When I spiral, it’s with internal momentum. It’s an interest that builds and grows. I’m a thread on an infinite spool, winding tighter and tighter, spinning faster and faster.
He’s worried I’ll get all wrapped up in this girl. This girl he brought into our home. This girl he refuses to let go.
But there’s no need for his concern.
Because he doesn’t know what I know. What I found.
Jo’s no threat to us. If anything, she’s battling deeper-rooted demons than all four of us combined.
But her story’s not mine to tell. And she may never tell it, either, if the only way she can move forward is to leave what happened in the past.
So I’ll stay quiet. Keep the secrets I shouldn’t have uncovered in the first place. Reserve judgment for how she manages, for how she’s survived.
She’s not a threat. At least not in the way Decker is concerned about. He’s only looking out for me—ever the protector, even when it’s unnecessary—but there’s no point in him getting worked up about an impending hyper-fixation.
I’m already fucking in it.