24. Kieran
Chapter 24
Kieran
Mom didn’t say anything when I brought Clay back later that day. And she wouldn’t. Not to me and definitely not to Shane. The trick to having grown kids, she’d told me once a long time ago, was not to meddle in their little spats and rivalries. If I wanted advice about Clay, or to know what she thought Shane might think, I could ask her. But unless she saw catastrophe on the horizon, it wasn’t her style to say anything.
She did however, wait until Clay had ducked into the bathroom to give me a pointed look. “He’s a good boy, Kieran.”
She reached out and nudged the plate of cookies closer. Her comment felt like approval.
“I know, Mom.”
“He’s had his share of troubles. Don’t add to them.”
“I would never.” I reached for a snickerdoodle from the plate and hummed my appreciation as I bit into one. They weren’t just Clay’s favorite. I still held the belief that Mom judged people based on what their favorite cookies were. Even if she’d never admit it.
“You would never mean to, I know.”
I stuffed the rest of the cookie in my mouth so I didn’t say something stupid. Sitting at the table with Mom with a plate of cookies between us had always felt like a confessional. It was hard, even now, not to pour my guts out to her. Perhaps she knew this the way she knew that snickerdoodles were my favorite.
It had been her trick since my brothers and I were small. Sit us down in the kitchen with a plate of cookies and wait patiently for our questions or our conscience to get the best of us. My brothers and I had once called it the cookie confessional. The memory made me smile.
“Care to share?” Mom asked, reaching for a cookie of her own.
Clay returned from the bathroom and I told them both about the cookie confessional. Mom laughed, but there was a knowing glint in her eyes, as though this wasn’t the first she’d heard of it. Clay nodded and took a cookie.
“It’s fitting,” he said. I got the impression that he’d been a victim of the cookie confessional during his stay.
“She got you too, huh?” I asked, resisting the temptation to reach for another snickerdoodle. I’d inhale half the plate if I wasn’t careful.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Clay feigned ignorance and Mom steered the conversation away from her interrogation techniques.
“What time do you get your cast off tomorrow?” Mom asked.
“The appointment is at ten, and then I see my physical therapist after lunch.”
“When I got my cast off, Mom made all my favorite foods, so if you have anything special you’d like to eat, now’s the time to mention it.”
“I’ll have you know that I already have that in hand.” Mom rolled her eyes at me. “Honestly, Kieran, you should know me better than that. But I think I went a bit overboard, so you should definitely stay for dinner tomorrow.”
Mom’s dinner invitation wrapped around me like acceptance. Like she understood my feelings for Clay, even though I’d been careful to keep them under wraps. It gave me hope that if and when push came to shove, that she’d have my back against Shane.
“I wouldn’t miss it.” I told them both.
Mom gave me an approving nod then excused herself from the table. She’d been a faithful soap opera fan for as long as I could remember. Even when her house was packed, she still managed to carve out an hour a day for her stories. There were times she resorted to recording them and watching them later when she got a chance.
“So tomorrow…” Clay started to say something, then trailed off.
I knew the day had been weighing on him. I wanted to make his day easier. Over the past few weeks, Clay had opened up to me a lot more about how nervous he was to have the cast taken off and what it might mean for his future. I couldn’t help the outcome tomorrow, but maybe I could distract him.
“You could always come back to my place. Grab a change of clothes. I’ve taken the day off anyway. We can get your cast taken care of and then I’ll take you to lunch before your physical therapy appointment.”
Clay hesitated for a bit too long, and I knew he was going to turn me down before he said anything.
“I think I need a night to myself,” Clay told me, guilt seeping into his expression.
“It’s okay, Clay. It was a whim; don’t feel bad about it.” It stung a little that he wanted space, but I didn’t let on. Everyone coped with things in their own way.
“In the interest of honoring the cookie confessional, I want to tell you that I want to go with you, and that’s probably why I shouldn’t. I like you. Maybe too much, if that’s a thing.”
His “confession” didn’t catch me off-guard at all. I’d hoped he liked me as much as I liked him. I wanted our feelings to match. And while I was fairly certain that I loved him, I didn’t want to reveal such a thing at my mother’s kitchen table.
“Tomorrow, then.” I stood to leave, stopping only to tilt Clay’s chin up and brush a kiss against his mouth. He blinked up at me, his eyes soft with affection. A smile tugged at his lips. He was obviously pleased at how bold I’d been just then, kissing him at my mom’s. Maybe one day soon, I’d tell him how I felt about him. One day when my mom wasn’t in the next room.
“Bye,” Clay said, a little breathlessly and I preened at the effect I had on him.
“Call me if you need anything.” I was still hesitant to leave, but I did have boring grown-up things to attend to. Like catching up with some work and making a grocery order.
Clay didn’t call. He didn’t text. I didn’t push, but it was hard not to take the resounding silence personally. In an effort to keep my mind off of him, I did an inhuman amount of work. My grocery order arrived and I put it away. And if I ordered things that I wouldn’t normally buy because I knew Clay liked them.
My own nerves kept me up late and woke me up early, and I arrived at Mom’s with coffee and donuts. Clay met me out front and slid into the passenger seat. He too looked like he hadn’t slept a wink.
“I got you a coffee.” I wanted Clay to lean across the seat and kiss me, but the warm smile he gave the coffee would have to hold me over.
“You’re a life saver.”
“You didn’t sleep either?”
“On and off.” He took a sip of his coffee and rummaged in the bag, pulling out one of the sour cream glazed donuts I’d bought him. Clay looked at the donut with a thoughtful expression before taking a bite .
“Nervous?” I asked for lack of anything else to say. The day he’d waited for and dreaded in equal measure was finally here and, in a short time, he’d be free of his cast.
“I’d be a liar if I said no. But mostly I’m looking forward to having a shower without a plastic bag on my arm.”
“I bet you’re looking forward to jerking off with your right hand again.”
Clay coughed and sputtered, barely managing not to spray donut everywhere. “I don’t know,” he said, his voice hoarse from coughing. “I think I’m finally getting the hang of using the other hand.”
“Had a lot of practice, have you?”
“I mean, have you looked at yourself? It’s not like I don’t have plenty of material.”
“Flattery will get you everywhere.” I flicked on my turn signal and pulled into the doctor’s office lot. I parked near the doors and killed the engine. “Did you want me to go in with you?”
Clay didn’t answer, but he looked pretty pale all of the sudden.
“I—” He opened his mouth and closed it again.
Taking his choice away, I slid the keys out of the ignition and undid my seatbelt. Clay sat there looking like a man who was about to face down a firing squad. I walked around to the other side of the car and opened his door. He looked up at me, blinking against the sun that shone in his eyes.
“Come on.” I held my hand out to him, waiting for him to take it. “Let’s go. I’ll be with you the whole time.”
He managed to pry himself out of the car. He brought his coffee with him, though because he was so jittery, caffeine probably wasn’t the best thing for him to have.
He took up one of the red chairs in the corner of the waiting room by a tall fake plant and stared at the silent television on the far wall. Once I checked him in, I took a seat next to him.
A million different reassurances lived and died on my tongue. I wanted to tell him that it would be okay. That his leg had healed just fine, so there was no reason to believe his arm wouldn’t. Unless he was on his feet for too long, he didn’t even have a limp anymore. It was only when he got tired that evidence of his injury showed up. It had been weeks since his face had been constantly pinched with pain. I didn’t miss that look, and I would definitely not miss the fearful expression in his eyes.
“Clayton Cross,” the assistant called his name.
He looked at her, then back at me, a silent plea in his eyes. I stood first, taking his coffee from him so I could hold his hand.
“It’ll be okay,” I told him, believing it because I wouldn’t let it be anything but okay.