Chapter 26
Chapter twenty-six
Eat
Becky
The next morning, Carrson steps into the kitchen and stops short.
Not slows.
Stops.
Like he’s walked straight into something solid he didn’t expect.
He stands there, eyes on me, cautious. “What’re you doing?”
“What does it look like?” I sing as I turn toward him with a grin, lifting the spatula in my hand like a baton.
Batter drips from the edge. The radio hums in the corner, loud and rhythmic, the kind of music that makes it impossible not to move.
I’ve been dancing along to it all morning, hips rocking, bare feet sliding across the tile.
I’m riding the high from yesterday.
That almost-kiss in the ballroom.
Even if he barely spoke to me at dinner. Even if he flinched when I reached past him for the salad his housekeeper left out.
I expected that. One step forward. Two steps back.
That’s how it’s going to be.
Lucky for him, I’m used to playing the long game.
Carrson’s still standing in the doorway. He blinks, as if he’s recalibrating.
“Sit,” I tell him, waving the spatula toward the table. “Go on. Sit.”
He doesn’t move right away. His gaze flicks over the kitchen, the stove, the plates, the food already set out. Totally normal.
“I made pancakes,” I add, turning back to the stove. “Bacon. Want your eggs scrambled?”
“Sure.” He walks the long way around the island, the way that avoids passing directly behind me, as if even that small brush of space between us would be too much, and lowers himself into a chair.
I plate everything, then pull off the apron I found stuffed in a drawer and toss it aside before bringing the food over. I set the plates down in front of him with a small flourish. “Ta-da!”
He stares at the food as if it might not be real.
“What happened to Mrs. Beckswith’s muffins?” he asks after a second. “She was supposed to leave some.”
“We have those, if you want. I thought fresh would be better.” My confidence falters. “Why? Do you not like it?” I work hard to keep the tremble out of my voice, but Carrson must hear it anyway.
“No,” he says quickly. “That’s not what I meant. I didn’t know you could do this.” There’s a small crease between his brows, like he’s trying to make sense of something that shouldn’t be complicated.
“No one’s ever cooked for me,” he adds, almost an afterthought. “Not like this. Just the housekeepers.”
“Oh.” I flounder, unsure what to do with that.
My mom wasn’t perfect, far from it, but she cooked for us. Sat us down at the table. Taught us how to do it ourselves, even when everything else was falling apart. When Lou said Carrson wasn’t taught well by his father I assumed she meant politics. Leadership.
Now, I wonder, has no one taken the time with Carrson to teach him—anything?
I almost ask about his mother, if she’d ever cooked for him, but before I do it comes back to me. That first meeting in the clearing.
Didn’t your mom teach you manners? I’d asked.
I don’t have one, he’d answered.
I think back to the articles. Photos of him. His father. Never a woman beside them.
Carrson’s gaze has already drifted past me, out the window as if the conversation ended for him the second he said it.
Which only makes me feel worse.
I spin back to the counter, but I’m more aware of him now than I was a minute ago. The way he sits there, shoulders slightly hunched, fidgeting like he doesn’t quite know where to put his hands.
“Well,” I say, forcing lightness as I turn back to him. I toss my hair over my shoulder, aware of his eyes tracking the movement. “There’s a lot you don’t know about me.”
“Oh?” he asks, attention snapping back. He stares at me, trying to decide if I’m teasing him or testing him. “Like what?”
“Um…” I tilt my head, pretending to think, dragging it out longer than necessary.
“I’m a good artist. I’ll draw your portrait this week.
” I let my gaze drag over his face until he clears his throat, fidgeting.
“I’ll need to study you first.” I tip up my chin, puff out my chest, going for playful but daring.
“It’ll be so good, you’ll want to hang it somewhere important. Maybe over your fireplace.”
I think back, trying to remember the rooms I’ve walked through since I got here, but I can’t think of a single framed photo. Not one. My smile softens, curiosity slipping in.
“Actually…” I swivel back to him, more serious now. “How come there aren’t any pictures of you? Or your dad? I haven’t seen a single family photo.” A small grin tugs at my lips. “I was hoping for baby Carrson or at least awkward teenage Carrson I could blackmail you with.”
I know I’ve stumbled into forbidden territory by the way he stiffens.
“There aren’t any pictures of me.”
“None?”
“Nope.” He digs into the pancakes, and I smile when he mumbles, “These are really good.” He takes another heaping forkful. Then another.
“My father didn’t take pictures of me. Maybe the other parents have some from parties when we were younger. They’d line us kids up and say cheese.” He’s attacking the eggs now, eyes on his plate. “Any pictures of my father and ancestors I took down once he was gone.”
“Why?” I pick up a piece of bacon, admire how perfectly crispy it is, and then nibble on the end.
“I got rid of all his stuff. Clothing, letters, everything.” He says it casually, as if it’s normal to remove all traces of your parent when they die.
“Did you give them away?” I ask.
“I burned them.” He pauses, a forkful lifted in the air. His gaze goes distant. “Built a big bonfire. There was so much smoke. It made my eyes water.” He refocuses back on me. “He would have done the same thing if I’d died. He hated me.”
“What?” I lean back in my seat, my food cooling untouched in front of me. “How could that be? He was your dad.”
“He never acted like one.” He shrugs. “Why? Were your parents nice? Did they treat you well?”
I hesitate, not sure how to answer. I’ve spent a long time not thinking about my parents. It’s easier that way. Thinking about them means thinking about Remi, and that never goes anywhere good.
“My parents are kind. Nice,” I say. “But in a small way.” I pick at the edge of my plate. “My sister was sick a lot. Most of the time, it was me asking her doctors what was going on. I’d research things, try to find new treatments…” I pause. “There weren’t many.”
Carrson doesn’t interrupt, but he’s watching me, paying attention.
“I used to push the doctors,” I go on. “Beg them to do more. Try harder. I couldn’t understand how my parents could say they loved her and not fight for her the way I thought they should.” Using my fork, I poke at my eggs, then take a bite, more to fill the silence than anything else.
“It caused problems,” I add a second later. “Between us.”
I swallow, my appetite gone.
“I told myself I wouldn’t resent them.” I put my fork down, line it up neatly with the edge of my plate.
“I wasn’t very good at that.” My fingers curl around my glass, but I don’t lift it.
“My sister was always better than me,” I say.
“She said I was too hard on them. That they were doing everything they could.”
I shake my head, a small, helpless motion.
“But I don’t know how that’s true.” My gaze drops to my plate. “Because she still died.”
I snap my mouth shut, the instinct to take it back hitting too late.
I’ve never said all that out loud before.
Never laid everything—Remi, my parents, me—out in a neat row for someone else to see.
I shouldn’t have, except Carrson stayed so quiet.
He gave me all this space, and I felt a need to fill it.
I expect Carrson to say nothing or to change the conversation. Instead, he sets his fork down. “You loved her more loudly. That doesn’t mean they didn’t love her too.”
“I know.” I drop my head, understanding he’s right.
“The other part, thinking like that’ll eat you alive.”
My forehead wrinkles. “What?”
“The part you’re not saying.” His eyes meet mine. “Believing you could’ve saved her if you’d pushed harder.”
My chest pangs, a gnawing ache. The one that never goes away.
“You shouldn’t carry that,” he says, and I think that’s the end of it.
Then his hand moves. Carrson reaches across the table, fingers brushing briefly against the sleeve of my shirt. Barely there, yet somehow more meaningful than any of the comfort I got at her funeral. Maybe because I know it cost him.
“That’s not how it works,” he finishes, as if it’s simple, before pulling his hand away.
The absence sets in immediately, so much that I almost reach out to recapture his hand. Halfway there, I remember not to try.
Carrson picks up his fork and knife once more, cutting neatly into his pancakes. He carves a perfect rectangle. Takes another bite.
He glances up mid-chew to find me sitting there. Staring at him.
Carrson frowns and points his knife my way. “Eat,” he says, tone in between a command and a suggestion.
For once, I don’t argue.
I pick up my fork, but I don’t look away.