Chapter 18 Soup for the Soul
Soup for the Soul
SYDNEY
Isit out on Maisie’s back porch; the cold air burns my lungs, but it’s nothing compared to the ice forming around my heart.
Did that really just happen? One minute, Brooks and I are sharing an actual human connection on the frozen lake, and the next he’s deliberately torpedoing it by bringing up the second-worst memory from our shared history.
It’s like he’s desperate to make me hate him again.
Mission accomplished, Kingston. Gold star.
The warm glow from inside the house looks inviting, but I’m not sure I can fake a convincing smile for Maisie right now. Not when I want to throat-punch her grandson.
But I’m getting too cold, and I should head inside before I make myself sick, which I can’t afford. By now, my anger has crystallized into something harder, sharper. I stamp snow off my boots with more force than necessary.
“Sydney? Is that you, dear?” Maisie’s voice calls from the kitchen as I step inside.
So much for sneaking to Brooks’ room to lick my wounds in private. I paste on my weather reporter smile—the one that says, “Torrential downpour? How delightful!”—and follow her voice.
“Hi, Maisie.” I try to sound like I haven’t just been emotionally whiplashed by the man she adores. “How did your appointment go?”
Maisie stands at the stove, stirring a concoction that smells like heaven—rich chicken broth, herbs, and that special something that makes her cooking taste like home.
She’s wearing an apron over her pantsuit, still dressed from her outing, though she’s swapped her matching headscarf for a knitted beanie that shows her hair growing back.
Is the new treatment easier on the follicles?
“Wonderful news,” she says, eyes bright. “My numbers are improving.”
Relief washes through me, temporarily displacing my Brooks-related frustration. “That’s amazing, Maisie!” I cross over to her, wrapping her in a gentle hug. “I’m so happy to hear that.”
She pats my arm, then returns to her stirring. “The doctor says keeping my spirits up is just as important as the medicine. And having you two kids together—” she gives me a look “—has certainly raised my spirits.”
And just like that, guilt crashes over me. Our fake relationship is giving her hope, boosting her chances of recovery. What would happen if she knew the truth? Or worse, if she sensed the tension currently stretching between Brooks and me, ready to snap?
As I reach down and give Gus a good back scratch, Maisie glances toward the doorway as if expecting Brooks to materialize. “Where is my grandson, anyway? I’m making his favorite—chicken soup with homemade noodles. Used to be the only thing he’d eat when he was sick as a child.”
I hesitate, unsure of how much to reveal. “We, uh... we had a bit of a disagreement. He said he wouldn’t be coming home tonight.”
Maisie’s spoon pauses mid-stir. “A fight?”
“It wasn’t really a fight,” I hedge, picking at a loose thread on my sleeve. “More like... I don’t even know what it was, honestly. We were having this nice moment, and then he just... flipped a switch. Started bringing up old stuff, pushing buttons.”
Understanding dawns on Maisie’s face. “Ah. So you got too close, then he had to push you away. This means he’s gone to the cabin, then.”
“Yup. He said he needed space to think.”
She nods, returning to her soup with the confidence of someone who’s seen this before. “Brooks goes there when he needs to sort himself out. Been doing it since he was a teenager.”
That’s news to me. Despite growing up in the same small town, despite my brother being his best friend, there are so many things about Brooks Kingston I never learned. Things I’m only discovering now, when it’s all supposed to be pretend.
“He’ll be back tomorrow,” Maisie says. “He always comes back. That boy just needs to work through things in his own way.”
I’m not sure if she’s trying to reassure me or herself, but either way, her acceptance of his disappearing act irritates me. Why should he get to run away while I’m left here making excuses and swallowing my feelings?
“Well, good for him.” I’m unable to keep the edge out of my voice. “Must be nice to have a personal retreat for whenever emotions get too scary.”
Maisie gives me a look that makes me wonder if she sees more than she lets on.
“That cabin saved him, you know. After that concussion he got his junior year in college. Wouldn’t talk to anyone, not even Jonah.
Spent a week up at that cabin. We were about to call search and rescue when he finally came down. ”
“I remember the concussion but had no idea he took it so hard.”
“He was jumbling words. Forgetting things. He got so terrified he’d never think right again. Didn’t want anyone to see him like that.”
Huh. Another piece of the puzzle that is Brooks Kingston.
“I’ll make a thermos of soup for both of you to take up when you go.” Maisie turns to grab a stainless-steel container from the cabinet. “The nights get cold up there, even with the fireplace.”
So, she already knows I’m not going to let him stew all night, does she? I fold my arms. Maybe I will. He can sit and be miserable all by himself. But I could use the walk. I’m all hyped up. And I need to give him a piece of my mind.
Maisie sighs. “I know you’re considering not going, but in the end, you’ll go. So please go soon before it gets any darker, okay, dear? It’s about a twenty-minute hike, a mile up steep terrain.”
“I’ve got my phone light. And I’m not exactly delicate,” I say without thinking. There’s that competitiveness flaring up. I groan. “You know me better than I know myself. And…” I flex one arm in a joking display of strength. “Soccer player, remember? I can handle a little hike.”
She studies me. “There’s our Sydney. The path starts behind the old shed, follows the creek up about half a mile, then branches right at the lightning-struck pine. Can’t miss it—looks like God himself took a bite out of the top.”
Ten minutes later, I’m bundled up in my warmest coat, a hat pulled low over my ears, with a thermos of Maisie’s homemade noodle soup tucked into my backpack.
The night has turned crisp and clear, stars punching holes in the black canvas above.
My breath clouds in front of me as I pick my way up the path, using my phone flashlight to navigate the uneven terrain.
What am I doing? This question repeats with each step, a rhythm to match my accelerating heartbeat. Why am I trudging up a mountain in the dark to bring soup to a man who deliberately hurt my feelings? A man who’s supposed to be my fake boyfriend, not someone who can actually wound me?
Because it wasn’t fake on the ice today. That conversation, that connection—it was real. And that’s what scares me. That’s what scared him, too, clearly.
The path grows steeper, and I’m grateful for my regular running routine as my legs power me upward. The exercise helps channel my churning emotions—anger, confusion, and something deeper, more terrifying that I’m not ready to name.
Maisie’s directions prove spot on. The lightning-struck pine looms against the night sky like a jagged tooth, and the path branches exactly as she described.
I follow it through a grove of trees that open into a small clearing.
And there, nestled against the mountainside as if it grew there organically, is the cabin.
And it’s a proper one, with a stone foundation and sturdy log walls. Light spills from the windows, golden against the darkness, and smoke curls from the chimney, carrying the scent of burning pine. Through one window, I can see flames dancing in a fireplace, casting long shadows.
For a moment, I drink in the scene. It’s like something from a Christmas card—the quintessential mountain retreat, isolated and perfect under the winter stars. The air up here is different, too—sharper, cleaner, like each breath could cut through the fog of confusion in my mind.
I approach, slow and uncertain. What will I say when I see him? Am I here to continue our fight? To demand an explanation? To offer an olive branch?
Before I can decide, before I can even reach the porch to knock, the door swings open.
Brooks stands in the doorway, silhouetted by the warm light behind him.
He’s changed into sweatpants and a thermal henley, his hair mussed like he’s been running his hands through it repeatedly.
The expression on his face—surprise, vulnerability, something like wonder—stops me in my tracks.
“You came all the way up here.” The words are half statement, half question. His eyes drop to my backpack. “And you brought a thermos.”
“It’s soup. For you.”
“Me?” The disbelief in his voice breaks something open inside me. It’s as if the simple act of climbing a mountain to bring him soup is so far beyond his expectations that he can’t quite process it. Like no one has ever done something this basic, this caring for him before.
“Maisie made it.” My voice is smaller than intended. “Homemade noodles. She says it’s your favorite.”
We stand caught in a moment that feels suspended between all our history and something new, something undefined. Snow falls, delicate flakes drifting around us.
“Come in,” Brooks says finally, stepping back. “It’s freezing out here.”
The cabin is even more charming inside—one large room with wooden floors and exposed beams, dominated by a stone fireplace where logs crackle and pop.
A kitchenette occupies one corner, a worn leather couch and coffee table the center, and a couple doors, probably leading to a bedroom and bathroom.
It smells of pine and wood-smoke and something distinctly Brooks—that clean, slightly spicy scent that I’ve grown accustomed to this past week and a half.
I shrug off my backpack, pulling out the thermos. “Should probably heat this up again,” I say, for lack of anything better.