Chapter 10
Braxton
“Hey, Brax!” my mother calls out as soon as I step through the front door, almost like she’s been listening out for me. “We’ve been wondering where you disappeared to.”
I follow her voice to the kitchen, where she’s wearing a candy-cane striped apron and whipping something in a metal bowl. “Huh,” I say, pulling out my phone. “Nope. Still working. And you know what? I haven’t moved in the last couple of days.”
She narrows her eyes, holding her hand mixer up like she might use it on me next. “You can march your sarcastic tone right back out the door,” she says haughtily. “And it wouldn’t hurt to send your poor old mother a text message every now and then.”
“Just say text or message. You don’t need to say both of them.” I sigh. “I’ve been working overtime. You know that.” I walk around, pressing a light kiss to Mom’s cheek when she presents it to me. I peer down into the bowl at the bright red frosting. “What’re you making?”
She flicks me a dubious stare. “And working extra hours automatically stops your phone from working? No…” She shakes her head, bulging her eyes comically. “It stops your fingers from working, doesn’t it?”
“If I’m not allowed to be sarcastic, neither are you,” I complain, and she rolls her eyes at my dramatics, pointing across the kitchen where a dozen cupcakes are set out on a cooling rack, iced with dark green Christmas trees.
“Cupcakes, for the church bake sale,” she proclaims. “All the proceeds go to families who can’t afford Christmas.” Her eyes sparkle. “We buy food, decorations, and presents for the children.”
“You’re a real-life Mrs. Claus,” I joke, reaching out to snag a cupcake, but she’s quick, slapping me away. “Ouch!”
“You’re as bad as your father,” she growls. “Hands off!”
Pouting a little, I shift out of her swatting range and lean back against the counter. “Where’s Dad?”
“He was tinkering with something out in the shed,” she says with a hefty dose of disinterest. “I stopped listening after he said wrench. He should be done soon—”
The back door opening and shutting cuts her off, right before Dad, woolen cap and jacket still on, appears around the corner. “My ears are burning. Did you summon me?”
“Boots off, sir,” Mom orders, and he salutes her. I rub my thumb over my mouth, hiding my smile. He reappears in just his blue flannel, his cheeks and nose bright red.
“Colder than a witch’s tit out there.”
Mom looks at him, her brows almost in her hairline. “How would you know what a witch’s tit feels like?”
He blinks, eyes bouncing from me to her before he slowly shakes his head. “Don’t think you want me to answer that, love.”
She huffs out an unamused sound, but her eyes are twinkling. “The two of you are trouble. I can’t wait for Analise to come home for Christmas. I won’t be outnumbered anymore.”
“What about Gracie?” I protest. “She counts.”
Mom’s eyes soften. “She does.” She looks behind me, like my girlfriend might pop out from somewhere. “Where is my Gracie?”
“She’s working.”
My mother scowls down into her frosting. “She’s been working so hard since Maryann jetted off.” She shakes her head, clucking her tongue. “Why anyone would ever think it’s a good time for a honeymoon right before Christmas, I’ll never know.”
“Well, love,” my dad says dryly, heading to the fridge. “Maryann is one you’ll know.” He holds a beer out to me, and I nod, so he goes in for a second, making quick work of cracking them open. “Come on then, boyo. Let’s sit and have a natter.”
“A natter,” I say with amusement as I follow him to the den. “You’ve been hanging out with Ma’s ladies too much since you retired, old man.”
He grunts, sitting down in his favorite armchair, waiting for me to take a seat on the couch before he hands my beer over. He turns on the TV, changing it to a sports channel where an old game of football is on. We both watch for a few minutes, a comfortable silence falling over us.
I tip my drink to my lips, trying to keep my mind as blank as possible and just letting the comfort of home swarm into my blood, but then my dad clears his throat. He shoots me a tense look, and I know I’m not going to like whatever he’s about to say.
“I talked to Monroe.”
“You can’t keep checking up on me, Dad,” I tell him tiredly. “And he can’t be going to you whenever he thinks there’s a problem. I’m a grown-ass man. I can handle my shit.”
“Are you?”
I blink at him, thrown. “Am I what?”
“Are you handling your shit?” He pauses before adding, “Your mother is worried about you, and so am I. The accident was a bad one, Braxton, and it’s okay to admit you’re struggling.”
I slick my tongue over my top teeth, eyes dropping down to my drink. “I’m handling what I need to handle,” I say vaguely. “Everything is where it needs to be, and doing what it needs to be doing.”
“If you say so.” His tone is coated in doubt, but I won’t bite at the bait he’s casting. I’m fine. “How did the viewing go?”
I lean back against the back of the couch, an ache radiating through my shoulders and up my neck. “I assume Marjorie talked to Mom?”
“They might’ve spoken,” Dad agrees slowly, the corner of his mouth twitching. I shake my head, and he points a finger at me. “You didn’t want to leave town when you graduated. You deal with the consequences.”
“I know, I know. The viewing went really good. Gracie is even more in love with the house than she was before.”
He cocks a brow. “And you both have enough money for the down payment?”
My glare this time is full of irritation. “Dad, seriously.”
He holds a hand out. “I’m just asking. I want this to go right for you and for Gracie. You know that.”
“I know,” I stress. “I’ve got it all in hand.”
“Everything is where it needs to be and doing what it needs to be doing,” he repeats.
I tip my bottle toward him, waiting for him to clink his against it. “Exactly.”
I don’t linger much longer, two days of work in a row taking their toll on my mind and my body. Just as I’m heading for the door, my mother presses a cupcake into my hand.
I give her a crooked grin, but she just shrugs. “I messed up the piping.” She points down at it. “Look, the baubles are all smudged into the branches.”
I shoot her a look. “You’re giving me the rejected cupcake?”
Mom gives me an arch look. “If that’s the way you want to look at it.”
“You know what?” I take a massive bite, green frosting coating my lips. I lick it off with relish. “Still tastes damn good, Ma.” She beams at me, but then it fades away, looking like she has something else to say. “What’s up?”
She purses her lips. “You’ll talk to us if you need to, right?”
“Of course,” I say with some confusion, and Mom reaches up to touch my unshaven cheek.
“We worry about you,” she says softly. “Just remember that we’re always on your side.”
I stare down at her, my chest feeling uncomfortably tight. “I know, Ma,” I say gruffly, looking away as I grab my coat, shrugging it on. “There’s nothing to worry about.” She doesn’t look like she believes me, but she nods. “I’ll message you,” I promise.
She rolls her eyes. “I trust that about as far as I can throw you,” she tells me with a small smile. “Which is to say, not very far at all.”
“Hope you’re not body-shaming me, Ma,” I joke. “I work hard for this physique.”
Mom reaches up, cupping my cheeks, yanking me toward her so she can stare into my eyes.
“Don’t be a stranger. It’s the holidays, and I want my family around me,” she says sternly.
“And tell Gracie you’re both coming to dinner on Sunday night.
” Her expression sets stubbornly. “I know you’re not working, so no excuses. ”
“I’ll ask her,” I say dryly. “But I’m not telling her anything.”
“That’s it, boyo!” Dad calls from the den. “You know who’s in charge!”
My mother lets me go with a loud laugh, and I heave out a sigh. “I don’t know why I keep torturing myself like this.”
“You love us,” she says easily.
I smile, pressing another kiss to her cheek. “I do. I’ll see you Sunday.”
I’m standing in my kitchen the next morning, waiting for my coffee to brew. Every time I blink, it feels like sandpaper is scraping against my aching eyes, and my soul is tired and hurting.
Sleep has been hard to come by for weeks now, my dreams filled with horror—the sound of metal scraping against metal, screaming, a pale, limp hand, and blood…And they follow me long after I drag my eyes open.
I grab my phone off the counter, needing to hear Gracie’s voice to drown it all out. She answers after two rings, her voice sweet as she says, “Good morning, baby.”
My lips tip up, shoulders easing fractionally. “Hey, Rumpel,” I rasp. “How’re you this morning?”
She lets out a weary sigh. “Ready for Maryann to get back. These six-day weeks are killing me. One day off just isn’t enough.” She pauses, and I can hear a faucet in the background turning on and then shutting off. “How are you?”
“Good. Just another day, right?” Even as the words leave my mouth, I think about telling her what happened the other day—my near panic attack when I heard about another child involved in an accident, and the way my hands trembled at the idea of facing it all over again.
I think about telling her about that first accident and how close I came to facing death, and then I think about telling her about running into Paisley.
I think about telling her anything, but then she makes a low noise, and the moment passes.
“Any news about Ben?”
“Yeah, he got discharged on Tuesday. The chief says he’ll be back to normal shifts next week.” I bow my head, knowing I’ve fucked up again, but I still can’t make myself talk.
“Oh, I’m so glad,” she says. “I bet his wife was worried.”
“Yeah.” I pause, mind full-on sprinting down a thorny path, tripping over debris and sticks before coming to a sudden halt. “Do you worry, Gracie?”