14. Roman #2
Mum glances sideways at me. The look she gives me is so familiar I could recognise it with my eyes closed.
“Roman…” and my name carries the exact same warning I used on her earlier.
I sigh under my breath whilst I keep stirring the batter, “I’ll find her.”
“I know you will,” she replies gently. “That wasn’t what I asked, sweet boy.”
The wooden spoon slips from my hand and clatters against the side of the bowl as batter splashes up the edges and the tension creeping through my chest finally catches up with me.
I drag a hand down my face before I lean forward and grip the edge of the marble counter.
My fingers tighten against the cool surface as I stare down at the mess we’ve made.
“You’ve never failed at anything you’ve decided to do,” she continues simply, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.
“That’s not true,” I mutter.
“Name one.”
The challenge is gentle but firm; it’s the kind she’s used on me since I was a kid and she knew I was about to spiral into my own head.
I open my mouth, ready with a dozen arguments, but the words stall before they ever make it out.
Instead, I just stand there staring at the counter whilst my mind runs through the years behind me and comes up empty.
Mum watches the realisation settle across my face before she turns back to the bowl, pouring the batter in slowly whilst a satisfied smile curves at the corner of her mouth.
“Exactly.”
I can’t help the smile that pulls at my mouth and I lean over, pressing another kiss to her forehead so she knows I’m alright.
We fall into a comfortable silence, and Mum doesn’t push the conversation any further.
She just moves around the kitchen beside me and the music continues to hum quietly from the speaker.
She’s always had this strange ability to understand exactly how much someone can handle before they start to crack.
It’s like an instinct she was born with.
Honestly, I’m convinced it’s her superpower.
“What are we making?”
“Lemon cake.”
“You always make lemon cake when you’re stressed.”
She glares at me. “I do not.”
“You absolutely do.”
“That’s completely untrue.”
“You made three of them when Felix broke his arm.”
“That was different.”
“You made two when Atlas crashed his car.”
“That was also different.”
“And you made four the night I told you Fae was missing.”
She stares at me. Then sighs.
“Fine.”
“I knew it,” I grin.
“Keep mixing,” she says, pushing the bowl toward me.
“Yes, chef.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I see her expression tighten. There is the briefest pinch of irritation crossing her face before she speaks.
“Your dad is annoying me, if that’s what you’re wanting to know.”
A smirk tugs at my mouth. “When is he not?”
She lets out a small huff of amusement as she reaches for the cake tin and tips the bowl so the batter slides slowly into it.
“Isn’t that the truth,” she mutters. “Men really are a different species, I swear.”
I chuckle and bump my shoulder lightly against hers as she scrapes the last of the mixture out of the bowl.
“What’s he done this time?”
“I’m sure it’s nothing,” she says, shaking her head.
“He has just been so distracted lately. More late-night meetings or going into the city for work. Things like that.” She wipes her hands on the apron again before looking at me.
“I probably shouldn’t have said anything. I don’t want you worrying.”
“You’ve lived with the man for thirty years,” I say as I lean back against the counter and study her. “If you think something’s off, it’s probably off.”
She hesitates.
Then she shakes her head.
“No. I’m overthinking it.”
I let it drop. If she says it’s nothing, then for now I’ll take her at her word.
Besides, the kitchen has already shifted back into its quiet rhythm.
The oven clicks as it heats and Mum wipes flour from the counter with slow, absent strokes of the towel.
We move around each other the way we always have, a familiar dance that doesn’t need instructions.
I rinse the bowl whilst she lines the cake tin, tapping it lightly against the counter to settle the batter.
The smell of lemon zest sharpens the air when she slices into one.
“How long are you staying?” she asks finally.
“Not long.”
“You have work?”
“Something like that.”
She studies me carefully as her eyes moves across my face.
I’ve never liked that look. Not because it’s judgmental, my mum has never judged me a day in my life, but because it always feels like she can see far deeper than I want her to.
She’s too good for this world. Too kind and bright.
People like her shouldn’t have to exist anywhere near the kind of thoughts that run through my head when I’m working.
I keep my expression steady and give her the same calm look I’ve practised for years, hoping it’s enough to convince her that whatever I’m about to walk into tonight isn’t the undoing of me.
“Be careful,” she finally says, and I frown.
“With what?”
“Whatever it is you’re about to do.”
“I always am.” I glance down at my phone sitting on the counter beside me and then back at her as she smiles faintly.
“Good.”
“I’ll come by this weekend,” I promise as I pull her into a hug.
“You’d better.”
I step outside into the cool evening air and let the door close behind me.
The warmth of the kitchen disappears and is replaced by the sharper bite of the early night settling across the garden.
I pause beside the car as the quiet stretches out around the estate before cracking my neck and pulling out my phone.
The screen lights up and I open the group chat.
My thumbs move quickly across the keyboard whilst the gravel grinds beneath my feet.
Roman:
It’s go time.
Ackworth is finally ours.