Chapter 11
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Noa
I avoid Stone for the rest of the night and morning. By the time I wake up in the guest room, Moo angrily wriggling aside when his human pillow gets up, Stone isn’t in the house and when I glance outside the front window, his car is gone.
“You can face him,” I tell my reflection in the bathroom mirror. My hair is damp from a shower and my face freshly exfoliated and frowning. “You don’t care how he reacts anymore. He is who he is.”
My reflection nods along with me, expression highly unconvinced.
“Shit.” I rest my palms on the edge of the sink and lower my head.
What was I thinking, freaking out like that last night? I was like a popped balloon, fragments flying into his face as I screamed our past at him like he wasn’t a part of it.
Like he didn’t leave me, regardless.
It was ten years ago, and I confronted him like it was yesterday. I rub my forehead, then massage my temples to prevent a headache. How mortifying. Now Stone will believe I’ve never moved on and clung to our high school relationship like Rose from Titanic . Moving forward, but not.
“He is not my Jack,” I say firmly to the mirror, then spin away and get dressed.
“Noa?”
Mrs. Stalinski’s tenuous voice comes through the monitor at my bedside. I finish pulling on my shirt and answer by pressing the TALK button. “Be right there.”
I throw my wet hair into a high, messy bun as I head down the short hallway and into her room, knocking on the door.
“Morning,” I say softly, approaching her bed.
“Hi, dear. Mind opening the curtains?”
“Sure.”
I study the color on her cheeks before I round to the window and pull the curtains open. She looks better, more pink than white to her skin, and she’s greeted me with a smile.
“Can I get you some coffee?” I ask, returning to her side.
“I’d love some. Make yourself a cup, too, and sit with me. I’d like to talk to you about last night.”
Mrs. Stalinski must notice something in my answering expression, as much as I try to stifle the unease. She adds, “Nothing bad, child, but I’d like to explain my reasons for substituting my son in our restaurant plans without consulting you.”
“You don’t have to explain.”
“Noa.” Mrs. Stalinski lowers her chin. “I’m cancerous, not senile. You’d be a saint not to despise me just a little for my surprise switcheroo.”
“You had your reasons.”
Mrs. Stalinski levels me with a look.
“Okay, fine. I dislike you a little for not discussing it with me first.”
“As I figured. Now, go make that coffee and we’ll talk more.”
She rests her arms on top of her covers, waiting expectantly.
I do as she asks, but I’m not looking forward to dissecting the subject of Stone any more than my over-anxious brain already has. I also don’t enjoy begrudging Mrs. Stalinski anything, so I stir creamer in both cups and resign myself to more Stone talk.
Jeez, even when he’s not here, he takes over my life.
I make myself comfortable in a sofa chair near Mrs. Stalinski’s bed, glad that she lifts her coffee to her lips first. It means I get a shot at nullifying the conversation before we dig any deeper.
“I’m sure you hope he and I will make amends. You also want to keep Stone out of trouble, and placing in ranch duties and cooking classes will ideally force him to stay busy while he’s here.”
Mrs. Stalinski’s cheeks lift over the rim. “You always were a smart girl. I’d like to add to your foregone conclusions about my motives, if I may.”
I lean back, sipping my coffee, certain I covered everything that needed covering.
“I won’t insult your intelligence by denying that my boy has always tried to behave himself around you despite his innate nature to make trouble. And I’m hoping you’ll continue to rub off on him, as he’s about to face the most difficult hurdle in his life. Losing his mother.”
I lower my mug to my lap.
“Thank you for not denying that,” she says, cupping her drink.
“We both know Stone likes to react when matters don’t go his way and I’m afraid as I decline, he’ll be moved to make a mess of his life and do something worse than he already has.
” Mrs. Stalinski moves her head in a sad arc.
“My boy’s so put together that he’s about to implode in so many ways, and while I’m positive returning home will help him, I need you to control the rest. It’s a lot to ask of you, I know,” she says as I open my mouth, “but he has no one else.”
I chew on my lip. “I’m not sure I can be that kind of light for him.”
“I wouldn’t ask if I wasn’t certain you are the right person for the role. What went on between you two, I will never try to disrespect. But it’s been ten years, and if it’s possible, I would be forever grateful. And eventually, so will he.”
“I don’t need his thanks,” I automatically say, then shut my mouth.
Mrs. Stalinski responds with an empathetic curve to her lips. “I will defer to your initial point that forcing you two into proximity might fix all those holes in both your hearts. But to be safe, I’ll refrain from making that my dying wish.”
Mrs. Stalinski chuckles and I go along with her dark humor, since that’s the only choice we have.
“And I really cannot do those classes with you, even though a month ago I was ready, energetic, and willing.”
“I believe you.” Rising, I take the mug from her hands and tuck the sheets around her. “And we would’ve been hard to beat.”
“You have that right.” She accepts the palm-full of pills I give her. “I’d argue my son shares my DNA, but sadly, the cooking gene swooped right over him and went into the family dog instead. Rest his soul.”
I laugh. “Stone proved himself last night.”
“To both of our surprise. Maybe California isn’t so bad for him after all, or more likely, he learned one dish to impress the ladies, and that was it.”
“Well, he can chop onions. I suppose I can always delegate veggie duty to him.”
“Does that mean you’ll do it?” Mrs. Stalinski’s question rises with hope.
I offer a confused smile. “I thought we resolved that last night when he won the bet to cook dinner.”
“True, but I would never force you to agree to terms that make you uncomfortable, ridiculous wager or not. You realize you always had a choice to say no, right, dear?”
“Of course. Yes.” I try for a dismissive laugh, like I hadn’t just lectured my reflection on how to cope with my new sous chef for the next two months. “It means a lot to you, so I’ll do it. Try, I mean. I’ll try it. If Stone’s willing, then I am, too.”
If anything, it’ll give me a chance to redeem myself after my outburst and show Stone how cool and collected I can be— will be—around him. He doesn’t affect me anymore, and if I have to cook with him to prove it, then I will.