Page 78 of With a Cherry On Top

But I don’t.

“The yellow house across from ours,” I say instead. “I’ll leave the keys with them so you can come back home with her. There’s pancakes in the kitchen and?—”

“Go, Chef.” Her voice is firm, no room for argument. “I’ve already booked an Uber.”

I hesitate, grip tightening around the phone. “Thank you,” I murmur before hanging up.

I crouch in front of Sadie, smoothing a hand over her messy braid. “All right, kiddo. Let’s go.”

She sniffles but nods, slipping her small hand into mine as we step out the door.

I could lie to myself and say I was too rushed to argue with Charlotte. That Sadie looked so happy at the thought of seeing her that I didn’t want to take that away.

But the truth is simpler than that.

There’s only one reason I went along with it.

Ineedto see Charlotte today.

The hospital roomsmells like antiseptic and something faintly metallic, and the white lights do nothing to counteract the harsh, sterile feel of the space. Mom looks small in the bed, swallowed by too-white sheets, but she’s still putting on a show. Arms crossed, jaw tight, pretending like she’s fine. Except that someonefinedoesn’t collapse on their way to the bath.

At least she still had her phone on her.

“You really didn’t have to stay,” she complains.

“Yeah, well, I don’t trust you not to walk out of here the second I turn my back.”

She rolls her eyes but doesn’t argue, which is in itself another red flag.

Logan telling me how Mom seemed off recently is a brutal reminder of the fact that I’ve been distracted. So absorbed in my own bullshit that I ignored the signs that something wasn’t right. I see them now, though. Clearly.

“Tell me you didn’t tattle to your brother, at least.”

“Yes, I told Logan.” I ignore the disapproving sound she makes. I’ve asked her in a variety of different ways what’s going on, but she keeps saying everything’s fine. Load of bullshit, that is. “He’s alone with the kids, so I told him to stay home.”

“Good, good. Primrose is in Mayfield this weekend?”

I nod distractedly. Where the hell is the doctor? It’s been hours since her twisted ankle was examined and bandaged.

“Did the two of you talk?”

“Talk?” I ask. “About what?”

“You know.Talk. Properly, like brothers.”

Oh. She means are we still pretending everything’s okay? “Mostly about the kids. I don’t think Logan is interested in much else from me.”

“You two just need to?—”

“Talk, I get it. But I can’tmakehim, Ma. He’ll have to decide for himself when he’s ready.” She mumbles something about us being stubborn, and I cock my head to one side. “Don’t you think it’s ironic you’d say that when you’re not being open with your sons?”

“Oh, that’s preposterous, Aaron. You?—”

A knock at the door makes me turn as the doctor steps in, a clipboard tucked under his arm. He’s younger than me, with sharp eyes that scan the room.

“Mrs. Coleman,” he greets. “How are you feeling?”

Mom waves him off. “Fine. Really, I’m good to go home.”

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