Page 32 of When We Met

“Is she going to be my mom?”

“What?” I gasp. “No. I don’t know who she is.”

The corners of her lips twitch. “But maybe you might like her, and she can stay.”

I put my hand over Camdyn’s face. “Sleep. Stop talking.”

“Fine.” She crosses her arms over her chest. “But I’m talking to her in the morning.”

“I never had any doubt,” I whisper, kissing her forehead before leaving their room.

Nerves run through me as I walk back to my room. But I stop in the living room. My stare unintentionally moves to the couch, where Kacy is now turned toward me. She’s sleeping or pretending to be. She’s half on the couch, half off, sleeping much like Sev does. I don’t know why, but I stare at her face, and the way the flames of the fireplace reflect on her skin has me thinking maybe getting to know her wouldn’t be so bad.

My jaw works back and forth, and I find myself stalled in the hallway, battling within my head and heart for reasons I don’t understand.

With a deep breath, I run my hand through my hair and close the door to my room.

Fix her car, I tell myself. Get her out of your life and theirs, I plead, but when have I ever been good at listening? Maybe I’m a shrimp. Think with my heart, because it’s in my fucking head now.

It’s the best place on earth.

KACY

I wake up in the morning to no sounds. Nothing. No police sirens, dogs barking, or the construction outside my apartment.

It’s… glorious. Pure, heavenly serenity.

I take that back. There are sounds, just not ones I’ve been accustomed to over the years. And talking. From little voices.

Do you know when someone is staring at you? That feeling you get like you’re being watched? I have that now, but I keep my eyes closed and wait. I listen to their voices and soft breathing, knowing they’re close to me, if not sitting right in front of me.

“She’s pretty.”

“She’s drooling.”

“I likes her hair.”

“Do you think she’s hungry?”

There’s a sigh followed by “I not know. I’m hungry. Where’s Daddy?”

“He’s outside moving snow. I’ll make you some waffles.”

“Okay. Lots of sirup.”

“Syrup.”

“Can you make them black?”

“No.”

“Look at the snow!”

I hear footsteps and pry one eye open to see the girls moving away from me toward the windows overlooking what looks to be a complete whiteout. The snow is so high you can see it pilling up against the windows.

Both girls are still in their pajamas, their hands pressed to the windows. I take a minute to watch them, enthralled by their every movement. The taller one with dark hair presses her face to the window, her breath on the pane as she watches her daddy.

The little blonde one, who’s less than impressed, drops her hands from the window. “It’s cold.”

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