Chapter 25 Abbie #3
For one heart-stopping moment, the old panic floods through me.
The empty bed, the silence, the realization that he's gone again.
Then I hear a crash from the kitchen, followed by a muffled curse.
I get myself upright, which takes longer every week, and make my way down the hall.
The scene in the kitchen stops me in the doorway.
Gray is at the stove, shirtless (when did he lose his shirt?) with a spatula in one hand and a skillet in the other, a slice of thick bread halfway to the pan.
A mixing bowl of egg and milk sits on the counter.
Cinnamon everywhere. A saucepan lies upside down on the floor where it apparently just landed, and the ultrasound picture is propped by the kettle, watching all of it.
"What are you doing?"
He spins around, spatula raised like a weapon. "You're awake."
"I'm awake. What is all this?"
He looks at the pan, then back at me. "French toast."
I stare at him. "French toast."
"The good kind. The Santa Monica kind." He turns a slice with the spatula, careful, and it comes up golden.
"You asked for it. Two years ago, in the Trousdale kitchen, with your feet in my lap.
You said you wanted French toast for your birthday and then I got on a plane.
I called the place. The guy walked me through it over the phone.
Twice. I dropped the syrup pan when I heard you get up. "
I start laughing until there are tears streaming down my face and I'm holding onto the doorframe for support.
"Hey, hey—" Gray crosses the kitchen in two strides, his hands on my shoulders, his face concerned. "What's wrong? Are you okay? Is it the baby?"
"I'm fine," I manage between gasps. "I just... you're here."
"Of course I'm here."
"No, I mean—" I wipe my eyes, trying to catch my breath. "I woke up and the bed was empty and I thought... for just a second I thought—"
His face changes, soft and sad and fierce all at once.
"I'm here," he says. "I'm right here. I'm not going anywhere."
"I know." I take a deep breath. "I know. It was just a moment. Old reflex."
"I should have left a note. I should have... I didn't think."
"You were making me birthday French toast. In June."
"Late is a kind of on time if you commit to it." He glances back at the stove. "The first two slices are a little pale. I got nervous and pulled them early."
"Pale I can live with." I look past him at the counter, at the bowl and the cinnamon and the bread he must have bought yesterday without saying a word, and something warm and dangerous starts to spread under my ribs. "You called the restaurant."
"I called the restaurant. The guy thinks I'm an idiot. He's not wrong."
"One of your many personal failings."
"One of many." But he's smiling now, his hands still on my shoulders, his light blue eyes soft in the morning light. "Sit. It's almost ready. There's real maple syrup, and there's the fake kind you secretly like better, and I'm not going to say a word about which one you pick."
"You just said several words about it."
"Pre-emptive words. They don't count."
He turns back toward the stove, but I catch his arm. He stops, looking at me.
"Thank you," I say. "For the French toast. Even the pale slices."
"Especially the pale slices. They were the learning curve."
I look at him, rumpled from sleep, ridiculous with his spatula, standing in his kitchen like he's been waiting years for someone to let him make breakfast, and hope shifts in my chest, dangerous and uninvited.
"Put a shirt on, Valentine. You're going to get splattered."
"I've survived worse."
"You dropped a pan."
"I dropped a pan once."
"This morning. You dropped it this morning."
"You're very dramatic in the morning."
"I'm very honest in the morning."
He grins, finally setting down the spatula. "Fine. Shirt. Then French toast."
"And don't let the next batch burn while you're finding it."
"I make no promises I can't keep."
"Then make a promise you can keep," I say quietly. "Even a small one."
He's silent for a moment. Then: "I promise the next batch won't burn."
"That's a start."
"And I promise to be here when you wake up. On the mornings we choose to spend here together. Until you tell me otherwise."
My throat tightens. "That's a bigger promise."
"I know." He meets my eyes, steady and serious despite the absurdity of the spatula still nearby. "I should probably get it laminated or something. For reference."
I laugh, surprised. "Laminated?"
"Official documentation. Very binding."
"I don't think that's how promises work."
"It should be. Would save a lot of confusion."
The baby kicks, hard, and I press my hand to my belly automatically. Gray's eyes drop to the movement, then rise back to my face.
"French toast," he says softly. "Two years late. That's the first one."
"That's the first one," I agree.
And when he turns back to the stove, I stay in the kitchen doorway and watch him lay the next slice into the pan, his movements careful and deliberate, like he's performing surgery instead of making breakfast.
It's not forgiveness. It's moving, though.
It's a start.