Chapter 1 #2
“It’s fine. I mean, I don’t mind. You’ll be home soon, right? Why not have a whole dinner celebration, then? Me coming home and you for your birthday. Kill two birds with one stone.”
He chuckles, that low rumble making my chest loosen a little. “Yeah. That’s a fair point. Might just give them a call, then. Haven’t seen those guys in too long. You’ve never met them, but they’re good fellas.”
Before I can answer, a burst of static crackles sharply in the background, followed by a clipped voice over the radio calling out codes I don’t understand.
Dad sighs, weary and reluctant, a sound I’ve known my whole life. One that always means he has to go even when neither of us want him to.
“Duty calls,” he mutters. “I’ll be home soon, kiddo. Love you.”
“Love you too, Dad. Let me know about your friends. I’ll whip up some snacks or something until you get home.”
“Will do.”
The line clicks dead, leaving only the faint hum of the house around me.
I lower the phone slowly, staring at the dark screen, the quiet settling in like an extra weight on my shoulders.
If he really does invite them here, I want the house to feel warm like a home.
Not just for me, but for him and the friends he’s carried with him all these years.
The ones who knew him before he was my dad.
While I’ve never actually met any of them face-to-face, Dad’s told me plenty of stories to fill in the gaps.
I glance around the living room.
The place already feels like him, but it could feel…I don’t know, more?
Like the kind of space that says: welcome, stay awhile! instead of the gloomy dwelling of an empty-nesting widower.
So, I get to work.
The guest rooms upstairs smell faintly of my mom’s old perfume, sheets crisp from being tucked away too long and unused.
I strip and remake all three mattresses, fluff the pillows and replace the cases, even dig out the old quilts Mom made years ago that have been kept in the attic since her passing over a decade ago.
My chest tightens a little when I smooth it out, her careful stitching still pristine in the lamplight.
She would have been thrilled to fuss over guests like this. That had always been her bread and butter.
Next, I head downstairs.
The linoleum is cold under my socks, making me shiver a little as I open the fridge.
The light flickers on with a buzz, revealing its usual bachelor assortment: half a carton of eggs, a couple of takeout containers, milk that expires in two days, and a jar of pickles that looks like it’s been there since the last administration.
I sigh and shake my head, moving to the pantry while bracing myself.
It’s not much better: boxes of instant oatmeal, a stack of canned soups I’ve never seen him eat, let alone like, and a couple bags of chips shoved to the back with their clips half on. Typical Dad.
He’s never been one to grocery shop, and especially not since I left.
It’s a wonder the man still has enough energy to run around the station.
I manage to dig out a bag of flour, a tin of cocoa not yet expired, and a packet of sugar that had been shoved behind a box of saltines and was surprisingly still good.
Well, good enough.
Pulling on my mom’s old apron and rolling up my sweater’s sleeves, I unpack everything the groceries I brought.
Normally I’d try to make some kind of savory dish for a late afternoon snack, but the upcoming holidays have me feeling more festive than usual.
It’s always been a tradition for Dad and me to break out the cookie-making supplies and spend an entire day churning out enough baked goods to feed half the town.
It’s kind of funny how easily I fall back into this rhythm.
Butter softens under the heat of my palms, sugar granules crunch against the wooden spoon when I mix everything together, cocoa dust lifts into the air in a thin chocolate-scented cloud.
It’s messy work, but I love it. It’s the one thing that never fails to remind me of Mom.
She died right before I hit middle school. It still feels as tragic now as it did back then.
Just shy of hitting her thirty-fifth birthday, cancer stole her away from us.
She’d fought hard, tried her best to keep going to save Dad and me the pain of having to bury her so damn young, but illnesses never care about your feelings or the scars they leave behind once they finally take the person you love from this Earth.
I glance around the kitchen as I tip the dough out of its bowl and onto the freshly powdered counter.
Muscle memory helps me find the old rolling pin in the bottom cabinet by the oven.
The ghosts of my childhood rise as I turn on the oven and roll out my dough with my mom’s favorite pin.
Her teaching me how to carefully cut out shapes as Dad snuck spoonfuls of dough behind our backs and pretended he wasn’t, me laughing as they playfully argued over who got the first cookie straight out of the oven.
Sometimes I wonder what my life could’ve been like if my mom never passed, if my dad never buried himself in his job to escape his own grief. It’s hard to imagine, but some days I like to believe we’d still be doing this together as a family.
The oven timer dings just as the sound of the front door creaks open and voices echo through the house. I jump, heart leaping into my throat, and for a moment I completely freeze in place.
“Hello?” a voice calls out. “Anyone home?”
Flour dust streaks the back of my hand as I swipe my phone off the counter and flip it over.
My hand shakes slightly as my thumb flies across the screen, already moving to call the cops when a text suddenly flashes across the screen.
Hey, Kiddo. Thought about it and you’re right. My friends will be popping by in about an hour. See you soon XOXO.
I press a hand against my chest and laugh quietly as my breathing slows down.
Well, at least I don’t have to call the cops…
Grabbing a dish towel to wipe my hands off, I step out of the kitchen, brushing a loose strand of dark hair back from my face, and freeze all over again.
Three men stand in the entryway, shaking the dusting of a light dusting snow from their shoulders.
Behind them, just outside the doorway flakes gently fall from the grey sky.
One by one they stamp their boots against the inside mat, shrugging their bags off their shoulders and setting them down next to mine.
For a heartbeat, I forget how to breathe.
The first man has dark hair threaded with silver at the temples.
His frame is wide, taking up the most space out of the three of them.
His mouth, unsmiling, tugs down slightly until his gaze lands on me.
Even then, he flashes me just the faintest quirk at the corner of his lips, like smiles are precious things he doesn’t give away often.
The second one is taller with nearly jet black hair that falls past his ears.
He’s a little leaner and more athletic than the first man, with sharp cheekbones and a jaw that looks like it’s been carved out of stone.
He slips out of his coat and tosses it onto the rack next to the door with a kind of easy confidence.
His mouth tugs up into a small, polite smile when his gray eyes land on me.
The last one lingers near the door, tugging off a knit beanie.
His hair is sandy blond, stubble along his jaw a few days past being clean shaven.
His shoulders slope in a way that should read casual but the way he eyes the other two has me feeling like he’s sizing up the room without making a show of it.
His frame is taller than the second man’s. Blue eyes meet mine and hold me in place.
He watches me carefully like he’s trying to memorize me.
Instantly, my heart kicks up in my chest.
My mind scrambles for words, but all I can think is how impossibly out of place they all look standing in the middle of my childhood home’s foyer.
And weirdly, somehow, like they belong here anyway.
Maybe it’s the long drive making me delusional.
The third one with an easy smile offers his hand to me first.
It takes me a second to reach forward and close the distance between us, and when I do, the scent of his cologne hits me.
It’s a woodsy scent mixed with something slightly citrus.
His palm is calloused and warm, his grip firm without being overbearing. “You must be Noelle. Your dad’s been bragging about you for years. I swear I know more about you than him sometimes. He told us we’d better be on our best behavior, or you’d set us straight.”
“Is that so?” I manage, trying not to sound breathless.
He chuckles. “Yep. I’m Dean by the way. It’s nice to finally meet you.”
The first man steps forward next.
He doesn’t hold out his hand right away, just studies me.
His dark blue eyes dip from my face to the towel still in my hands then roam down to the rest of me before coming back up.
I’m almost tempted to squirm under the scrutiny and go running back into the kitchen before it becomes obvious how attracted I am to them all.
Finally, he extends his hand. “Grant.”
When our palms touch, a shiver runs straight through me.
The second man moves with an unhurried stride, his handshake steady, eyes softer than the other two but no less intense when they meet mine. “Thanks for letting us crash here. I’m Callum.
I swallow back the moan trying to crawl its way up my throat.
Waving my hand, I force myself to laugh. “No problem. I’ve heard horror stories from that place, so I’m not surprised you guys had a bad time. I’m just surprised it hasn’t shut down yet.”
That earns me a laugh from Dean. “You’re telling us. Honestly, the second we checked in, I thought we were gonna end up on one of those documentaries for organ harvesting where the twist is that all the staff were in on it.”
Grant shrugs out of his coat and claps Dean on the back. “He’s got quite the active imagination sometimes. Don’t mind him. He’ll settle down once he has a beer in him.”
“Or some food,” Dean counters, then sniffs the air. “Do I smell something baking?”
I duck back toward the kitchen, my cheeks burning as I suddenly remember the cookies.
The smell of them lingers in the air, warm and sweet.
I pull the tray out, setting it on the counter and wave the towel in my hand over it a few times as steam rolls off them.
Behind me, the men wander in, drawn by the scent like moths to a flame.
There’s a low whistle that travels across the kitchen right before Dean leans over the counter with a grin. “If this is the welcome package, I’m never leaving.”
My lip quirks. “You’re more than welcome to take however many you want.”
“Don’t encourage him,” Callum warns. “He’ll eat the entire tray if you let him.”
Dean plucks a cookie off the tray, ignoring the heat, and bites in. He chews slowly, eyes flicking to me. “You bake often?”
“Sometimes,” I say, trying not to fidget under his stare.
Callum takes one next, blowing on it first like a normal person. As soon as he takes a bite, he nods. “Best thing I’ve tasted all week.”
The kitchen soon fills with the kind of easy chatter.
Low voices rumbling over one another as they trade teasing jabs, laughter spilling out in short, rich bursts that have my stomach flipping.
It’s the sound of history, of years spent side by side in places I’ll never know, each story they leave half-finished only to circle back around later to include me in on the punchline.
I lean against the counter, watching them move around the space that suddenly doesn’t feel quite like my childhood kitchen anymore.
They open cabinets like they belong here, crack beers from the fridge like it’s another Friday night, and share looks and smirks I can’t decipher.
I’m caught somewhere between amusement at how seamlessly they fit themselves into this house and something else I can’t quite name.
Or maybe because I don’t want to.
Not yet, at least.
Later, after everyone’s settled, we gather in the living room.
The fire Grant started crackles in the hearth, throwing shadows across the room.
I curl up in the corner of the couch with a blanket draped over as much of my body as possible, my legs tucked under me, pretending to scroll my phone while watching them from the corner of my eye gather their things and bring them up to the bedrooms upstairs.
For some reason, I’m finding their energy completely intoxicating.
They’re attractive—undeniably so—each in his own way.
Dean with that silver-tongued charm, eyes always glinting like he’s seconds from dropping another wise-cracked joke.
Grant who carries himself like he commands the room, his presence overwhelming every nook and cranny of this house.
And Callum, the quiet one, with his steadiness that fascinates me the most.
The awareness of having them around me prickles like static in the air, dangerous and distracting, and almost impossible to ignore.
I swallow hard and try to tell myself it’s nothing. They’re just Dad’s friends.
Men who’ve come to celebrate his birthday with him for the weekend before returning to whatever state they came from.
I’m only letting it affect me because I’ve been so buried in my studies the past few weeks, I’ve barely had any socialization.
But deep down, I know better.
It isn’t nothing.
It’s something I shouldn’t even be thinking about at all.