Cyrus
Chapter nineteen
Pancakes
Ten more years could pass, and I still wouldn’t be prepared for the force of emotion that hits me watching Billy bounce through the sleek, sunlit kitchen.
Awe. Grief. Love so immediate it nearly steals the air from my lungs.
The urge to pull her into my arms and never let go crashes through me, but I force it down before it reaches my face. The last thing I want is to scare her. Or spoil this moment before I even understand what it is.
I linger near the kitchen island, completely rooted. My gaze catches on the pink cow-print utensils scattered across the counter, and something soft pulls at my mouth despite everything unraveling inside me.
The similarities between her and Liam are impossible to ignore. Same pale-blonde hair. Same bright blue eyes. Same excitement over the smallest things.
They carry the same kind of light. And all I can think about is how many moments I’ve already lost.
“Momma,” Billy says with a dramatic sigh, “you aren’t humming your part.”
My brows lift toward Fallon in silent question. Color immediately rushes into her cheeks.
“We hum while we make pancake batter,” she explains, suddenly fascinated with the mixing bowl. “It seals the pancakes with love so they taste better.”
That’s fucking adorable.
“By all means,” I murmur, leaning against the counter, “don’t let me stop you.”
Her blush darkens, and I can’t help pressing a little, enjoying the rare sight of Fallon Monroe flustered. Not that I’m handling this any better.
Because standing in this kitchen, drenched from standing out front in the rain debating if this was a wise decision, emotionally wrecked, watching a little girl who is certainly mine argue about pancakes?
Yeah. That’s its own kind of terrifying. And somewhere deep inside me lurks the awful possibility that Billy already believes I didn’t want her. That I couldn’t possibly love her. Christ. If she only knew.
“Momma.”
“Maybe next time, sweetie.”
“We wouldn’t want those flapjacks to burn, would we?” I tease some more.
Her eyes dart to Billy, scanning, calculating. She shoots a single finger my way—quick, sharp, and defiant. The tiniest spark of the old Fallon, the fearless, untouchable version of her I knew long ago, flickers across her face.
She’s the same firecracker I fell for all those years ago, and the sight tears through the careful walls I keep around my heart.
They both begin humming. I wish they wouldn’t. My walls crumble as their humming becomes a perfect Randy Travis melody, forever and ever, amen. I choke down on a sob, my own ego, the ignorance I suffered as a youth, so cocky that I knew it all, it cost me a million memories.
Fallon and I used to spend hours down by the river, rewinding our cassette tape to play it again.
I watch in rapt fascination as my past and future collide, the mother-daughter duo combines the powder with milk into a large cow-print bowl.
Billy holds the wooden spoon with both hands, stirring in perfect rhythm to their humming.
Once they deem their mixture ready, Fallon leans against the counter as Billy grabs a round cylinder of brightly colored candy, looking toward Fallon with confirmation.
She gives a hesitant bob of her head. I note that other than a quick peek here and there, Billy hasn’t felt comfortable enough to pursue me with open curiosity.
I’ve caught a few small glimpses of big blue eyes, my eyes, and a smirk of victory, that she gets from her Momma.
“Are you going to pour them, sweetie?” Fal asks.
Billy dances in place, her face lighting up. “Yes!” Together, they pour the pancake batter onto a hot pink griddle. Watching until little bubbles form on top, Billy sprinkles the shimmering pink candy on top of the pancake.
“It’s time to flip them, Mommy,” Billy tells her as she reaches for a spatula. I watch her mystified, as her daughter, our daughter, flips the pancakes. What else can she do? I wonder… I’ve missed so much.
“Billy,” I get her attention as she finishes flipping her pancakes. “Are unicorns your favorite animal?” She giggles. “Unicorns aren’t real.”
“Of course, Silly me.”
“I’m more of a Grinch fan all year round.
” She informs me, side-eyeing Fallon, that she leans over in a whisper, as if the other woman can’t hear her.
“But Momma says we should wear our Grinch pajamas at Christmas time. That is awful, because Mr. Grinch is so cool—he twerks!” She springs up from the table, and panic claws at my chest. Dear Lord, what has Fallon been teaching our daughter?
Her little hands fly outward as she twists from side to side. I nearly shut it down—the idea of one of my kids twerking makes my stomach flip—but then Billy starts hopping in place, her hands bouncing wildly. Relief washes over me. Crisis averted. No one needs to die today.
Fallon leans over to inform me, “We do breakfast with the Grinch, in December every year. He twerks in the promotional videos, but it’s all very clever and fun, family-friendly, but still a hoot.
Trust me, our daughter isn’t out here pop-locking and dropping it in Daisy Dukes.
” She’s enjoying my discomfort, panic setting in that I have a daughter.
“Sounds spectacular.”
“Indeed.”
Turning my attention back to Billy, who’s now shoveling mini pancakes down her throat, two at a time.
“So, unicorns are out and the Grinch is in?”
“Unicorns are a close second. And Mom loves anything that comes in both of our sizes.”
Fallon’s face takes on an almost whimsical look. I can’t help but wonder if she looks that way after she… “I know, I know. You’re too old to wear matching pajamas with me. But baby! I only got nine years of us looking oh-so-adorable together.”
Billy’s smile is diabolical. A feral animal knowing when to pounce. She taps a small, dark purple nail against her chin.
“You know, Momma, I will wear matching pajamas with you until I’m thirteen if you get me a puppy.”
Fallon’s snort is quick and…fucking enduring.
Her eyes widen, tugging a memory of us to the present.
We’re back in the bed of my old truck on a riverbank, her body on top of me.
I cough, uncomfortable with the insane turn of my thoughts.
I’ll evaluate how fucked-up it is that I can be turned on while my ex-girlfriend makes pancakes with our daughter later.
No, I don’t feel troubled by it. Motherhood is fucking hot on Fallon.
“No, final answer.”
“I’ll wear you down later.” Billy’s confident in her declaration. Fallon leans into her, popping a kiss to her forehead. Sweeping up the plate of mini pancakes, she swayed those perfect hips toward her dining room table.
“Sure thing, sweet cheeks.”
Billy and I share a glance, both grinning.
“Can I get a hound puppy?”
Her mother and I both say, “Nope,” in unison.