Page 11 of Still Yours
It’s not that I’m afraid of Stone in this moment, but he’s so coiled, so indecently thrown into a dire situation, that I’m not sure what he’d do to release his frustration.
Not hit me—never. Stone would never resort to violence against a woman. But the wall behind me or the open door hanging on brass hinges, even the potted plant at the base of the stairs, however…
“Ma.” The word whooshes out of Stone’s mouth as he passes me and clings to the banister on the first step. My heart squeezes at the worry in his voice.
As soon as he sees his mother holding her robe together and her usually perfectly curled, dyed red hair flattened on one side of her head and mostly gray, I pull my lips in and bite down.
“Honeybear, what are you doing all the way out here?” she asks him.
He ignores the question. “Tell me what’s going on. Why are you in your pajamas instead of grading papers or making dinner or hanging out with your friends at the salon or?—”
“Son. Honey. Calm down.”
“No—” he hisses as he stops himself from breaking down in his mother’s presence, though I’m 100 percent certain he was about to sayno fucking way am I calming the fuck down.
“Noa?”
Mrs. Stalinski’s use of my name jerks my chin up.
“How much have you told him?”
“Nothing,” I say, conscious of Stone’s attention prickling against the side of my face, cold with betrayal.
I don’t owe him anything, I assure myself.He lost that privilege when he left me without so much as a goodbye.
Mrs. Stalinski sighs. “All right. Help me down.”
Stone immediately complies, taking the stairs three at a time. Mrs. Stalinski offers her hand, but Stone ignores it, scooping her up in his arms.
His face collapses at how lightweight she is.
My composure cracks at the sight.
Stone takes the steps with grace and care now that he’s holding his mother. I scoot out of the way as he brushes past me and into the living room, where he gently places her against the stacked cushions—a favorite spot of hers.
“I’ll give you two some time,” I say softly, backing away.
Mrs. Stalinski catches me right before I reach the front door. “I’d love some hot tea, Noa, if you wouldn’t mind.”
“Of course.” With one last, longing look at the front door, I turn into the kitchen, but not before going into the attached dining room and lifting expensive bourbon off the bar cart.
If Stone is the same William Rodney Stalinski from my childhood, he’ll need about three fingers of this right now.
I busy myself in the kitchen, throwing on the kettle and readying two chamomile tea bags in a mug until I find myself with nothing to do but wait as the water boils.
There’s no door separating the kitchen from the hallway, and Stone and his mother’s voices carry like a gentle wind flowing through the space and into my ears.
Biting my lip, I lean against the wall, my head tilting back as I listen.
“How long?” Stone demands.
Mrs. Stalinski must have laid her diagnosis on him the moment I left, a move I respect. The poor man was vibrating so much with worry and confusion, it electrified the air throughout the entire house.
Or was it only the air between him and me, thick, pulsing, and heated?
We left so much between us unsaid. And so muchmorewas added to our emotional baggage today.
“A few months,” Mrs. Stalinski admits to her son. “It’s rather aggressive.”
