Chapter 11
Eleven
Sawyer
“Do you like the pancakes?” Ollie asks, a huge bite of the carby confection, soaked in syrup, hanging off the end of his fork.
I stifle a laugh, take a bite of my own flapjack, albeit with less sticky syrup spilling action. “Yeah,” I tell him. “They’re really good.”
“They’re my favorite,” he says, through the mouthful of buttery, sugary deliciousness.
Grinning, I keep eating.
So does he.
“Do you like ’em too, Leo?” he asks, waves his fork out.
A glob of syrup flies off the tines, lands on the table.
I lean in, dip the corner of my napkin into my water glass and swipe up the sticky droplet before it can get on anyone's clothes.
As I’m doing that, my eyes catch Gray’s, and there’s something in their depths, I don't understand.
Or maybe it’s that I want desperately for what I’m seeing to be true.
Because it’s approval. Respect.
And it’s been growing in the others’ eyes too, growing as we rounded everyone up for breakfast, growing as we’ve hung out and eaten and generally taken over our usual corner at Molly's.
Faye and Gray, Leo and Harper, Kailey and Smitty. Me, Ollie, and Lainey. Aiden and Luna. Bri and Rip. And Reese and Sophie, who are being passed around like tiny, adorable hot potatoes so Moms and Dads can eat too.
It’s a typical impromptu team outing with chaos and overlapping conversations and jokes and Smitty’s booming voice carrying across the restaurant.
I expected the judgment to come back after Ollie interrupted Lainey and me in her office.
Expected to begin to be warned off again.
Instead, I came out to find Faye in a quiet, terse conversation with Gray and the others.
The quiet was typical. Faye is generally quiet.
Her expression was too—the stubborn set to her jaw, the determination that made her a survivor, that helped her be successful.
It was the edge to her temper that was surprising.
She’s a redhead and has the disposition to match.
It just takes a long time to trigger her dormant volcano of a temper.
Today it had been, though, and I saw it in her hushed, angry words, saw it in the way she poked Gray in the chest…
Saw it in those pretty brown eyes.
Of course, her sharp words cut off when I came out, and what exactly she was so pissed about, I don’t know. I do know the guys backed off, though.
Faye’s gaze comes to mine as she forks up a bite of her pancake—she and Gray both got the banana bread variety, while Ollie and I opted for the whipped cream and chocolate chips (and plenty of syrup).
She winks, and surreptitiously, I rub my hand over my chest, at the ever-present ache.
It’s still there. Always there.
But maybe it’s a bit less painful today.
Because of Faye and Harper and Kailey and Luna.
Because there isn’t judgment in their eyes.
Nor in Lainey’s as her gaze flicks down to my hand, to the spot I just cleaned.
My lungs hitch as our eyes connect again, as I find the same warmth in her expression as she had in her office, as she leaned close and our lips almost collided. And it's almost as though that wound inside me gets a little smaller, as though stitches close up the edges—just a little bit.
“So will you?” Ollie asks, snapping me out of my head, drawing me back into the present.
I tear my gaze away from Lainey.
From the pull toward her that’s existed inside me from the moment I first met her, that’s grown deeper, stronger with every additional moment in her presence.
And I focus.
Because Ollie is smiling up at me expectantly.
And I realize I have no idea what he's talking about.
“Sorry, bud,” I tell him. “I was zoning out there for a minute. Could you tell me again?”
Thankfully he doesn’t get upset with me. Instead, he just nods and puts his sticky, syrupy hand on mine, saying, “Mom and I have a Christmas…” His face screws up. “Addition,” he finishes slowly.
“Tradition,” Lainey corrects gently.
His brows pull together as he concentrates on the word. “Tradition,” he repeats. “A Christmas tradition.” He smiles. “Wanna come?”
I still, trying to understand how two words from a four-year-old feel so big.
So important.
Maybe because he’s not asking me to do anything other than be there with him.
I want to say yes, but something has me stopping, has me glancing over at Lainey, searching her face for any indication that she might not want company.
Might not want my company.
But all I see is the possibility of something I’m not sure I can have.
Especially as my phone buzzes, my mom's name flashing on the screen.
“Sawyer’s probably busy,” Lainey interjects as I silence the call and shove it back into my pocket.
“What’s the tradition?” I ask, ignoring the buzzing cutting off…and starting up immediately again, acutely aware of Leo’s gaze on me.
Of Leo’s knowing gaze.
Of the truth he knows, the things I've shared with him.
My stomach knots.
But I leave my phone in my pocket anyway.
“Stop it with the freaking wombats!” Smitty booms, making me jump and glare over at him. Then smother a smile when Bri grins at me and pockets her phone.
“How can you be scared of a wombat with a grass allergy?” she asks innocently.
Smitty just shakes his head and shudders.
“Are you busy, Saw-yur?” Ollie asks.
Right. I need to focus. “What is the tradition?” I ask.
Ollie lifts his hands in the air, his smile wide and his voice almost as loud as Smitty’s was a moment ago, “Cinnamon rolls and movies!”
“Softer, honey,” Lainey corrects. “We’re in a restaurant, remember?”
His face screws up again. “But Smitty was louder.”
Laughter is smothered all around…well, all around except for Bri who cackles like a loon and Kailey who leans in and kisses Smitty’s jaw, and says, “I like you at any volume.”
My heart squeezes.
He just brushes her hair back, murmurs something in her ear that makes her blush.
I look away, past Leo’s still-knowing gaze, and back to Lainey’s, and there my heart goes again.
Because the bittersweet longing I have inside me, the yearning to have what my friends do, even while knowing it’s not in the cards for me, is intense.
And it’s also etched into the lines of Lainey’s face.
“Maybe,” she says, breaking her stare away from mine and grinning at her kiddo. “But he’s also bigger than you.”
Ollie ponders that for a moment.
Then looks over at Smitty.
Finally, he nods.
“Cinnamon rolls and movies,” he says again, this time at much more appropriate restaurant volume.
I grin as Leo ruffles his hair, says, “That sounds like a pretty epic tradition to me.”
“I agree.”
“Mom made the cinnamon roll dough last night,” he explains solemnly.
“And all it needs is for you to put on the cinnamon and sugar,” she says, her eyes coming to mine for a beat. “Ollie’s a professional when it comes to sprinkling on sugar.”
Laughter in my chest. “I bet.”
“I love sugar,” he says, still solemnly.
“That I also bet.”
“So”—he settles his sticky hand on mine again—“will you have our addition with us?”
My phone starts buzzing again.
I can sense Leo watching me, can feel Lainey’s careful stare on me, but more than anything else, it’s that small hand on top of mine that draws my focus.
“Yeah, bud,” I say. “I’d love to.”
And I’m absolutely calling it an addition now.