23. Mars
Mars
I’m in the middle of changing a set of spark plugs when Arden’s face appears right next to me under the hood.
I jump in surprise and hit my head, which sends her into peals of laughter. I rub my head and grin at her, remembering when that would have triggered a number of heartfelt apologies and offers to leave the house before she causes more trouble.
I’ll take the sore head if it means I get laughter now instead of apologies.
“Did you actually need something or did you just come to laugh at me?” I finally ask.
She stops laughing, but the grin doesn’t melt off her face, and that’s new, too.
“I’m heading into town. I have some things to do.”
“Okay.” I’m not going to stop her from going into town, and it’s second nature now to let her do whatever she wants, but a split second later, I change my mind. “Wait.”
She pauses and looks at me with her wide, hazel eyes, lower lip caught in her teeth. “Problem?”
Lots of them. Starting with the always-present memory that the Saints had her on their property and still haven’t said anything to me about having taken her back and installed her in my house instead.
I haven’t stopped waiting, though, and the longer they take to bring it up, the more nervous I get.
I still don’t know why they had her or what they were going to do with her, because she refuses to talk about it. But I do know she holds value for them–she must, or they wouldn’t have had her–and they’d be crazy if they didn’t want to recover their merchandise.
“Be careful,” I murmur. “Please.”
She grins. “I always am.”
That’s not true. I’ve seen her sitting on the edge of a bridge with her feet dangling in the wind and hundreds of feet of empty space below her.
But I let her go anyhow, because it wouldn’t be fair of me to keep her here 24/7, so I can keep her safe.
Though the idea has crossed my mind more than once.
The day is both eternally long and too short, full of the complications of owning a garage, because the shop might be running more efficiently now, courtesy of Arden’s new system, but it’s still not making as much money as it should.
I know this is a hangover from months of being late on deadlines, and I know it will end, but Current Mars is having to deal with it, and he’s exhausted.
I walk into the house tired, frustrated, and in need of a quiet night without any pressure.
And then I smell the cinnamon.
I stop dead in the hallway, my mind racing back to my childhood, when I used to come home from school to find my mom elbows-deep in bread dough, flour on her face and laughter echoing through the kitchen, and for just a moment, I’m a boy again.
No shop. No responsibilities. Just schoolwork and younger siblings and, on occasion, fresh-baked bread from my mom.
Though my father inevitably ruined things.
And my mom never backed with cinnamon.
This is someone else. Someone baking something in my kitchen, and waiting there for me to get home. I feel a smile stretch across my face, and my feet turn toward the kitchen.
Because I know exactly who I’ll find there, and there’s a satisfaction uncoiling in my heart that I’ve never felt before.
A sense of safety that I haven’t felt in years.
The kitchen looks like a tornado has blown through carrying nothing but flour and sugar. The place is covered with the stuff. It’s on the counters, on the floor, and floating in the air.
Arden herself looks like she’s cosplaying as a ghost.
She’s covered in flour from head to toe and her hair is falling down out of its bun. She’s got a streak of icing on her cheek and cinnamon dusts the bridge of her nose.
I would say she looks adorable, but given the look on her face, I think it would be the wrong choice. The girl looks absolutely furious, like she walked into the kitchen to find it in this shape, and the person who did it is long gone.
She looks up, sees me, and narrows her eyes. “I think your cinnamon rolls are trying to kill me.”
“Death by cinnamon roll is a real thing,” I say, as deadpan as I can manage. “I lost a friend to it, once. Terrible way to go.”
I don’t see the ball of dough when she throws it, but I feel it when it hits me square in the chest, and I sit down firmly in the chair behind me, laughing.
“That’s exactly how it starts,” I note. “The dough attacks you and before you know what’s happening, it’s reaching its fingers up your nose and closing it up. ”
Arden’s face gets even more furious and she threatens me with another handful of dough. I put my hands up and shake them, rapidly indicated peace, and she relents.
“What’s wrong?” I ask. “Do you need help?”
She huffs. “No. It’s just stickier than I expected. And I had a... mishap with the flour.”
I fight to keep from laughing at this. “I mishap? Is that what you’re calling it?’
She looks like she might throw something worse than dough this time and I snap my mouth shut, vowing that I’ll keep quiet until she actually needs something from me.
Though despite her words, she looks like she’s doing just fine. Her movements are quick and sure, and I can see that Penny’s been training her. Arden has the same quick gestures, the easy measurements, that I’ve seen when I watch Penny baking.
The thought brings warmth to my chest, and I settle in to watch. Though now I realize that I do have a question.
“Why have you decided to make cinnamon rolls?”
She brushes a lock of hair out of her face with her wrist. “I helped Penny make her bakery more efficient, so she taught me how to make your cinnamon rolls. She even gave me the whole recipe. Told me you’d love me forever if I could make them.
She won’t give me the recipe for that apple pie, though.
She says it’s a family secret and she won’t let go of it until the day she dies. ”
“That’s rich,” I note. “She doesn’t have any kids. Who’s going to carry it on once she’s gone?”
Arden chuckles. “Have you seen the woman? She has as much energy as I do. I don’t think she’s capable of going anywhere.”
“I hope not. Who would make me cinnamon rolls then?”
“Me. Obviously.”
I grow quiet at that, because in the space of three minutes, she’s now thrown around the word ‘love’ and said she’ll be around to bake me cinnamon rolls after Penny is gone, and I don’t even think she noticed. Just regular conversation, as if it didn’t matter.
As if these were the sorts of things people say every day.
And maybe for some people, they are. But they’ve never been everyday conversation for me. Hell, I’ve never heard them from anyone before, even on a monthly or yearly basis.
No one has ever promised to bake me anything, much less my favorite cinnamon rolls.
I look now at the tiny girl who just volunteered to do just that, and let my eyes run over her body.
She’s tinier than almost anyone I know, but she lives in her body like there’s nothing she can’t do.
She’s still looking frail, like she needs to eat more–which is a laugh, considering how much she already eats–but her cheeks have more color than they used to.
Though that might be because she’s angry at the cinnamon rolls.
She’s got highlights in her hair from three days of going into town and she’s filling out her clothes better than she used to. She’s also smiling more, and humming to herself.
It’s amazing what a few days in a safe home will do for a girl, and I wonder again why her father hasn’t called, looking for her. Why hasn’t my sister said anything about her missing stepdaughter? Why didn’t Roberto pay the fucking ransom?
How has this girl been missing for months without a single move from anyone?
If she left my house, she’d leave a hole big enough to hold a mountain. I can’t imagine losing her and not doing whatever it took to get her back.
She turns and pulls a rack out of the oven, steam billowing out around her small form, and for a moment I’m sure she’s burned the entire batch of pastries.
Then she emerges from the steam grinning like a maniac.
“They’re done,” she says triumphantly. “Hold, please. Must ice them.”
“Holding,” I say solemnly.
She slides the tray onto the counter, grabs a bowl of something, and does an extremely haphazard job of putting icing on the cinnamon rolls.
Then she uses a spatula to get one out and puts it on a plate.
She carries the plate to me like she’s presenting the crown jewels, and then steps back, all expectation.
“Well?” she breathes. “Taste it.”
God, I hope this is as good as she expects it to be.
I try to pick it up but it’s like trying to hold molten lava and I drop it immediately. Arden hands me a fork, looking like she thinks I’m an idiot for trying to use my fingers, and I take it without answering the look on her face.
I cut a piece off with the fork, blow on it for a second, and then put it in my mouth and chew slowly.
I may actually be insane, but it’s the most delicious thing I’ve ever tasted.
“These are better than Penny’s,” I say honestly.
I look up to see her barely holding it together. She’s got tears in her eyes and her lips are wobbling, and for a moment I think I’ve hurt her by complimenting her baking. But how? Isn’t it a good think to think someone’s cinnamon rolls are good? How could that possibly make her cry?
Then she laughs and wipes at her tears.
“Don’t let her hear you say that.”
“It’s only you and me here, Arden. If she finds out, it’s because you told her. Let’s just agree to keep that a secret between us.”
“Deal,” she says, sticking out a flour-covered hand and waiting for me to take it.
I’m dirty and greasy from a day in the garage and she’s covered head to toe in flour, and I have the fleeting thought that we’re quite the pair. Both of us dirty, both of us carrying enough baggage for three people.
And yet here we are, shaking hands in my kitchen as we make a deal not to tell the local baker that Arden’s baking is better than hers.
I take her hand and pull her toward me, wrapping her in a hug. Fuck the flour. It’ll wash off. I need this girl in my arms right now.
“I just thought you looked like you could use something good today,” she murmurs against my chest.
And my heart starts to expand like someone just put a balloon in it and filled it full of air. Because this girl, this tiny, darling girl, has known nothing but abuse and fear in her life, and somehow still knows when someone is having a hard day.
And goes out and learns how to bake to make them feel better.