CHAPTER TWELVE
A blend of savory aromas pampers my nostrils as I inhale deeply.
It’s mouthwatering and almost distracts me from the pressure brewing in my gut.
Instead, the knot twists tighter until I struggle to breathe.
My regular don’t-give-a-shit mode abandoned me as the sun was rising over the pastured horizon.
Byron notices my knee bouncing under the table. “Problem?”
I bite my lip and force my muscles to relax. “Nope, just hungry.”
Which is a big, fat, juicy lie. If we were eating turkey, my dishonesty would steal the spotlight from the main course. In truth, my nerves are cranked to the max as if I’m being questioned for murder charges. The jumble in my stomach suggests it’s worse than that.
And the why doesn’t make sense when I shift on the cushioned seat, trying to get comfortable.
The three of us have shared many meals together at this point.
Thanksgiving is a holiday and special occasion, but Byron and Ronnie aren’t treating it as such.
Not that I have any clue what it looks like in a traditional format.
But festive decorations didn’t explode all over the house.
There isn’t a grand plan or five-course feast in sight.
The little girl hasn’t acquired a taste for roasted meat. Lasagna and garlic bread are on the menu. Our place settings are the same as usual aside from autumn-themed napkin rings that Ronnie made at school. It’s casual and chill, yet my heart is racing.
“There’s a rumble in my tummy,” Ronnie sings. “Gonna need somethin’ yummy.”
“Almost ready,” Byron says from the kitchen.
Baked cheese and Italian spices waft toward me after he closes the oven. His movements are practiced and collected. I envy that calmness. This is his natural environment and he’s strutting around like a proud peacock.
“Such a great dad,” I mumble under my breath.
Ronnie abandons her dolls, giving me her full attention. “He’s the bestest.”
Byron pauses while putting bread in a basket. “What’s that?”
Before his daughter can call me out, I reach for a distraction. “Want some salad?”
“Ooooh, yes! We worked super hard on it.”
I almost laugh. “You’re very good at mixing the ingredients together.”
“That’s ‘cause you cut ‘em up just right.” Ronnie mimics the fine act of chopping vegetables.
The urge to preen drops the tension in my shoulders and I’m able to scoop the salad without trembling. What can I say? My knife skills are worthy of praise. Byron doesn’t miss the opportunity to interject.
“Frankie is an expert at slicing and dicing. That’s how she gets the bad guys.”
The little girl stares at me like I invented sugar and puppies. “My superhero.”
And cue a fresh wave of jitters. It’s been a hot minute since she’s put me on that lofty pedestal. I’m definitely not deserving. But the stars in her eyes are bold and bright. Lopping off my own hand would be less painful than dulling her sparkle.
“You’re the sweetest,” I croon. “I’m a better person because of you, kiddo.”
“Really?”
“Yep.” And I leave it at that. My past doesn’t have a seat at this table.
“Okay,” Byron says to get our attention. “The lasagna is ready.”
Ronnie rushes to finish her salad. “Yippppeeee! I’ve got lotsa room.”
“The pan is really hot. It’ll be easier to serve on the stove.”
“Message received.” I collect our plates and bring them to where he’s standing.
“Thank you.”
I almost startle at his words. Between the dark severity in his stare and the deep notes of his timbre, it’s obvious that he’s not just talking about the dishes.
I’m suspended in his magnetic hold for several rapid beats of my heart.
We don’t look away, somehow tethered together by this unknown gravity.
A shiver races up my spine like an icy finger. It’s enough to free me from his trance.
“It’s nothing,” I whisper.
“It’s everything.”
Now I’m stunned speechless. Meanwhile, Byron gives each of us a heaping portion as if he didn’t just knock me sideways. Gratitude is such a simple, often overlooked concept. Most don’t give it a second thought. It’s monumental to me, especially coming from him.
There’s a sudden burn along the bridge of my nose. The last thing I need is to cry in front of Byron. Just the other day, we were heckling each other. Tonight, I can barely look at him without fidgeting.
My jaded exterior is usually reliable, but right now, it’s nowhere to be found. An onslaught of doubt pours over me like a fat storm cloud. What am I doing here, pretending to belong? It’s a joke. I’m a fraud.
While ignoring the lump in my throat, I drop my gaze and snag the filled plates. I scurry back to the table as if in a hurry to stuff my face. In all honesty, my appetite shrivels with each passing moment.
“Someone’s in a hurry to dig in,” Byron jokes while following close behind.
Like so many times before, I’m mesmerized as he swoops down to press a kiss on Ronnie’s head.
She snuggles into his side for a quick embrace.
Tingles spread across my chest as I take it in from afar.
Their affection is warm and effortless and awe-inspiring.
It’s also foreign to me. Just one more reminder that I’m an outsider.
But they chose to include me in their small circle, which is more significant than my intrusive thoughts.
Byron lifts his chin at my untouched food, interrupting my spiral. “Well?”
“I’m waiting for you to sit.” And drag my gaze away from the tender scene he creates with his daughter.
“Considerate,” he grunts, taking his seat at the head of the table. “But we aren’t that formal. You should know that by now.”
Heat crawls up my neck. I pin him with a glare and blindly load my fork with what smells like the best lasagna in creation. “Prepare to be judged on this recipe you’ve been bragging about. I’m not a kind critic.”
My features flatline into a stony mask as I slap down some much needed snark and sass. That’s more like it. I’m just off my game.
But that freshly reclaimed bravado vanishes the instant the food touches my tongue.
One bite is packed with more flavor than I can comprehend.
I flutter my lashes while instantly surrendering.
The layers mix together in a tasteful burst that’s meant to render me senseless.
It’s saucy and melty and more decadent than lasagna has the right to be.
That’s my only excuse for what happens next.
“Ohhhhh. Myyyyy. Gahhhhh,” I moan loudly.
Ronnie lunges toward me, ready to leap across the table to my rescue. “Are you okay, Frannie?”
“Uh, yep. It’s just… um,” I grapple for an excuse, but fail against the savory punch. “Gosh, you know what? This is soooo delicious.”
The little girl bobs her head with enthusiasm. “Daddy’s a super good cook. My tummy is happy. Yum, yum.”
“Mhmm,” I agree, my mouth packed full.
Byron smirks. His cocky expression is well earned. “It’s my mother’s famous lasagna. One of the few things she left behind before leaving.”
That truth bomb hits far too close to home. I pause chewing. In most cases, the food might turn to ash in my mouth. This meal is just too damn good.
“At least she was good for something,” I comment absently.
His smile twists into a much sadder version. “Got that right.”
There I go, soiling the positive energy. I swallow hard. “Let’s brighten the mood, hmm? Tell me about your favorite Thanksgiving memory, Ronnie.”
“Being with you and Daddy,” she answers quickly.
“But this one is still happening,” I laugh.
“Still counts,” she insists. “It’s already my favorite ‘cause you’re here. There’s three of us now. It’s almost like I have a mommy, but I know you’re just my nanny. You’re gonna be my nanny forever, m’kay?”
Ah, shit. There goes my bottom lip. The wobble would put a drunk girl to shame. I blink rapidly, trying to reel in the emotional mess that’s consumed my mental state.
Byron gawks at me like I’ve sprouted horns. I don’t blame him. This is very uncharacteristic for me.
And Ronnie isn’t done. “I love you, Frannie. Like this.” She leans toward her dad and traces a line down the straight slope of his nose, tapping his chin to end the symbolic gesture. “That’s how we show our love.”
I’ve seen them exchange the action on a few occasions, but didn’t understand the meaning. “Oh, my. What a very special gesture. Did you come up with that?”
“Daddy did,” Ronnie explains. “He started doing it when I was just a baby. Maybe I can do it to you someday.” The hope in her voice is my undoing.
Just when I thought I’d contained my tears, a single drop sneaks out and paints my cheek. I clear my throat, but there’s still a frog stuck in there. “I’m not sure what to say,” I croak.
“Your acceptance is plenty,” Byron utters almost gently.
I find myself nodding. “I’d really like that, kiddo. Thank you.”
“Welcome,” Ronnie chirps.
Her father and I might not get along, but this little girl is determined to steal my heart. I just might let her.
“I’m not sure anyone has really loved me before,” I add, almost as an afterthought.
Her adorable face screws up into disappointment. “How’s that possible?”
My shrug is casual, trying to play off the deep wounds that have scarred me. “I didn’t have a normal childhood. Not even close. Believe it or not, this is the first Thanksgiving I’ve ever celebrated.”
Shock slackens their features in unison. It’s tough for them to picture not having a tight-knit family. For me, that’s just the way it was. I didn’t know an alternative existed until I was much older. I’m still coming to terms with that.
This is what it’s like to live in a home filled with compassion and warmth. I’m not sure I’ll ever get used to it. I probably shouldn’t. The moment I do, it’ll get ripped away like everything else.
“Good thing you’re ours now.” The relief in Ronnie’s tone has the power to make me sob.
“Yeah,” I breathe, eager to grasp onto this reality with both arms while it embraces me. “It’s a very good thing.”