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FOURTEEN

BRANDON

Iunlock my apartment door, letting Naomi step in first.

She runs a finger along the spotless kitchen counter. “Did you hire a cleaning service?”

“I did it myself.” I toss my keys in the bowl by the door. The one she bought me months ago, claiming my keys shouldn’t live on the floor.

“Seriously, who are you, and what have you done with Brandon Milton?”

“Maybe I just got tired of living in my own filth.” I brush past her, heading for the cupboard, and grab two glasses. “Tea?”

“Brandon.”

Chamomile or ginger? I read both are good after vomiting. But ginger, apparently, is better. “How about ginger? Any protests?”

Her voice is sharper this time. “Brandon.”

“Yes, cupcake?” I set the kettle on the stove.

“You cleaned.” She’s not letting this go. Like mother, like daughter. “And you’re making tea.”

“Amazing observation skills.”

“When’s the last time you cooked?”

My hands freeze on the mugs. “You tell me.”

“How would I know?”

“It was when I went by your office to bring you lunch.”

“That was 6 months ago or so.”

“Huh.” I halt. Six months, two weeks, and four days, to be exact. “That long?”

“You stopped cooking when your father died.”

I busy myself with the tea, measuring out leaves. “Really earning that accounting degree.“

“Brandon. You?—”

The kettle whistles, sharp and shrill. Perfect timing. I pour the water, watching the steam curl up from the mugs. It’s better than having to see the pity in her eyes.

I know they are on me, heavy with all the things she wants to say. All the things I can’t hear right now.

Her voice is soft, careful. “What are you making?”

I glance at her, surprised by the change in topic. She’s perched on one of the barstools, chin resting on her hand.

No pity in her eyes.

“Haven’t decided yet.” I slide her mug across the counter. “Any requests?”

“Something simple.” She curls her hands around the mug, inhaling the steam. “Baby steps, right?”

My lips twitch. “Look who’s giving advice about baby steps.”

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