13. Henley
Henley
“What have I done?” I mumble into the rough fabric of the pillow that is currently smothering my face.
I can’t believe I agreed to Emerson’s proposal.
Exhaustion must really be impeding my rational thinking, or maybe I’m just slipping back into old habits. I’ve never been able to refuse Emerson Lane.
“Hey, Hen, would you grab me a juice?” On it.
“Can I have a bite of that?” What’s mine is yours.
“Tell me what you want?” I want you to kiss me.
“Want to move in with me?” Abso-fucking-lutely.
No matter how many years we’ve been apart or the hurt that still lingers, my heart is still tied to him by some invisible force. One that’s about to bring us a whole hell of a lot closer tomorrow.
I groan once more into the pillow when something heavy crushes on top of me.
“Ooww,” I grumble, my words muffled by the fabric of the cushion.
“Awntie Hen? You awive?”
Lyla rips the pillow from my clutches, and her little eyes are shimmering with tears.
“Yes, sweet girl. I’m okay,” I say, pulling her into my chest and kissing the top of her head.
She crawls out of my grasp and sits beside me. “Why you on the fwoor, siwwy?”
Mom walks down the stairs at the same time. “I’m also intrigued to know why you are sprawled out on our carpet.” She places her hands on her hips, raising a brow.
Sweat beads on my forehead.
I knew that I was going to have to tell my parents about the crazy arrangement I just made with Emerson, but I’d hoped I would have had just a few more hours to process it myself.
The plan was to tell everyone at dinner.
Make them a carb-loaded dinner, stuff them with savory dishes, in hopes that it would give them such a food coma that my moving out wouldn’t be such a shock.
But maybe talking to Mom first might give me a little bit of an advantage.
“How about I make us some tea and tell you all about it.”
“I’d love that.” She smiles softly, her shoulders relaxing as she walks across the room and lifts Lyla into her arms. “Let me get this munchkin down for a nap, and then I’ll be down.”
“I’ll get the kettle started.”
The water begins to boil quietly on the stove as I turn around and lean back against the counter, taking in the small kitchen where I discovered my love for cooking.
As far back as I can remember, I sat on the counter or the stool of the butcher block counter.
Mom gave me small tasks at first, like shelling the peas or whisking some mixture in a bowl.
As my eagerness continued to grow, she began to help me chop the vegetables. Soon I was able to do it on my own.
I loved our time in the kitchen together. She’d put on music, changing it from genre to genre as we’d dance around using our spoons as microphones while we cooked.
I’m a lot like Mom in that sense. I’ve always been eclectic about my music.
Sometimes country, sometimes rock, and when the time calls for me to bust a move you better bet that I have Nelly playing at full blast. Each melody soothes the chaos of my mind.
When the emotions feel entirely too much, I slip on my headphones and get lost in each song.
Music has inspired a lot of my favorite recipes.
Even after a long day in culinary school, I’d use what little money I’d saved from my waitressing job and buy just enough groceries to experiment.
With my headphones blaring my favorite tunes, I’d pretend to create recipes for the future restaurant that I thought I would have one day.
When I’m creating in the kitchen, I feel alive.
Cooking has always been about more than just food to me.
My passion for it always stemmed from the way it makes others feel.
There’s nothing greater than seeing someone take the first bite of your labor of love, watching the pure joy melt over their features.
I’ve always believed there’s a perfect dish for every problem, a comfort for every moment and celebration of your life.
The ceiling creaks above me. Lyla must be having a hard time going down for a nap.
I stroll over to the walk-in pantry, looking for some cookies to go with our tea.
My breath hitches at the sight of the dark green apron with the floral embroidery hanging next to the door.
My keepsake from the other woman who inspired my love of baking, Autumn Lane.
I trace my fingers over the embroidered daisies and swallow down the emotion that bubbles to the surface. Leaning my forehead against the door, I squeeze my eyes tightly shut, trying to keep the tears at bay from the memory that flashes through my brain.
“That smells heavenly,” Mrs. Lane had said eagerly while leaning forward to examine our latest bake.
“Only because you walked me through it step by step.” I winked.
Mrs. Lane adjusted her beanie and pulled the blanket tighter around her body.
This last round of chemo had hit her hard.
Her hair fell out faster than the other times before, so she finally convinced Mr. Lane to shave it off.
My heart pinched. She had been so happy she was able to grow it back into a short bob after her last remission.
“You exceeded my baking talent years ago, Hen. This is all you.”
She reached across the counter to dip her finger into the lemon icing, and I swatted it away.
Her shock made me laugh out loud. I slid her the bowl of leftover icing and a spoon, and her eyes glittered with excitement.
Mama Lane—the nickname Ryleigh and I lovingly bestowed upon her—dipped the spoon into the bowl and placed the dollop of frosting into her mouth with glee.
Seeing her filled with joy made my horrible day fade behind me.
“What’s wrong? You’ve been more reserved than usual today.” She placed the spoon down and patted the stool beside her.
With a heavy sigh, I slugged around the counter and took a seat. My hands fidgeted in my apron, too embarrassed to share the events of my day. She placed her palm over mine, and I raised my gaze.
“It’s just me, sweetie. Tell me what happened.”
I nodded, taking a deep inhale.
“After PE, I walked into the locker room to change and found my Converse missing. I panicked and began searching all over the place until I stumbled into a conversation of a group of my classmates.” I paused, my hands beginning to tremble beneath hers.
My thoughts took hold once more like they did on the walk home.
“Keep going,” she whispered, squeezing my hand. “The best way to get over it, is to power through it.”
“They were all laughing about how they had thrown my shoes in the trash.”
Mama Lane shook her head and motioned for me to keep going.
“I should have left then, but my feet were frozen in place.
As I listened, they picked apart every bit of me.
They said I was a gangly geek who focused more on school than caring about the way I looked.
That my green shoes were completely ridiculous and deserved to be taken out with the trash, just like me.
“Then they went on to talk about my hair. I tried something new with my hair today . . . tried to curl some of the unruly waves in my hair. I had thought—well, I thought it had turned out nice. I guess they had a different opinion.”
Her hand smoothed over the top of my hair and through my waves. “You are beautiful, you know that right?”
My lashes flutter to the floor as I shook my head.
“You have something they will never have. Your beauty lies not only on the outside, but deep inside here.” She tapped her fingers over my heart. “Don’t let them dull your light, Henley.”
As the tears fell freely, I leaned over and pulled her in a hug, careful not to squeeze her body too tightly. “You always know the right thing to say to make my dark days a little brighter.”
“You too, Hen,” she whispered, pressing a kiss into the top of my head.
The high-pitched screech of the kettle yells behind me as I wipe away my tears. I turn to take it off the stove when I meet my mom’s gentle eyes. She slides it off the stove, then opens her arms wide. Not hesitating at all, I dive right into them.
“I miss her too, Henny-Penny. Every day.” Her words brush against my cheek as she lets me cry until I can’t anymore.
“Mom,” I say, my nerves rising. “You’ve been silent for the past five minutes.”
She sets her tea down and smiles. The tightness in my shoulders releases.
After the tears stopped bleeding out of me, we were finally able to sit down and I spilled everything.
I told her about the cabins on the Lane property, and was honest about Emerson’s state and how I might be able to help him with more than just getting the ranch ready for guests.
Then she continued to pry even further. I couldn’t lie to her anymore.
The story of why I really left New York came flowing out of me like word vomit.
She gathers my hands in hers, her thumbs rubbing soothing circles over the tops. “I’m proud of you.”
My eyes widen. “Why?”
“You are the bravest person I know. You chase vehemently after your dreams. Every time an obstacle crosses your path, you power straight through it. And after everything that you just told me, where others might crumble, you’ve found a way to let yourself rise again.
I admire your strength, Hen, I always have. ”
The muscles in my body tense as my mind plays catch up.
“Mom, I’m a failure. And this time, I’ve failed exquisitely. All my life, I’ve never been enough. No matter how hard I try, I feel like I’m blundering through my life.
“I struggled my way through school, having to study longer hours than most to still fail countless tests. I’m embarrassed that I didn’t graduate with honors like Ryleigh did.
Even at community college, the only thing I was good at were my baking classes.
Honestly, I was worried I might have been dropped from the program all together because of how much I was struggling with my other courses.
If I wouldn’t have received that scholarship, who knows what would have happened.
All those times you’ve said I’ve ‘risen’ again, have just been my attempts at desperately trying to cover up my mistakes, try to do something right for once.
I’m a constant embarrassment to you all, and to myself.
There is nothing brave about that at all. ”
“Never once have I thought of you as a failure, sweetheart. Especially with what happened in New York. Can’t you see that was not your fault and that was entirely out of your control?”
I shake my head. “I-I should have been better. Never should have gotten myself into the situations with Sadie or Carson. Never should have stayed in it for so long. Maybe things at the restaurant would have been better if I would have just committed myself a little harder, you know?”
“Henley Rae Cole.” She squeezes my hands. “I am going to say this loud enough for you to hear through your clouded mind. We have never been embarrassed or disappointed in you. You’ve never failed. You will always be enough.”
My eyes burn, the well of tears already dried up from earlier.
“I’m not so sure, M-Mom.” My voice quivers, and she slides out of her chair and crouches beside me. Holding my face between her hands she presses a kiss to my forehead.
“I’ve always been sure. This is going to be good for you. I think it’s time to shake it up a little. Stop worrying about chasing perfection and start seeing the worth in everything that you do. Love you, sweetheart.”
“Love you, too.”
A loud thud and a bang of the door against a wall crashes through our moment.
“The wild child has risen.” She laughs and the warmth of the sound makes me do the same.
Lyla comes bounding down the stairs and leaps into Mom’s arms. She swings her around, and Lyla squeals with glee.
“Go ahead and start packing and in a little while we can start with dinner.”
“Okay.” I stand and begin to make my way to the living room when my mother’s voice stops me.
“Oh, and don’t worry about your father.” She winks. “I know exactly how to wrangle Tripp Cole.”
With a giggle, I head into the living room to pack, feeling a lot lighter than I have in years.