Page 70 of Moms of Mayhem
Mom didn’t even look up from her tea, enclosed in a stainless steel tumbler with a lid. Her hands shook, but she didn’t stop trying, and that was a victory itself. A home healthcare worker had been stopping by every day, helping me with the last of the changes we needed to make to the house to make it safe for her, as well as doing routine checks.
“Maybe it’s time you just tell her.”
I opened the door and paused, glancing down at the small package in my hands, heart beating faster than it had any right to.
“Maybe,” I said.
But not yet.
Not until I was sure she wanted it to be me.
My appointment with Emmy was at 10 this morning, so I left early enough to park down the street from her house, yet again. She backed out of the driveway, headed to the studio, and that was my cue.
Seven weeks post-op, and I was out here limping through a suburban snowfield like a one-man rom-com mission. All to drop off a box with fuzzy socks, a pack of face masks, and a bunch of beauty gadgets I had no idea what they were for, all without getting caught on camera.
Yes,camera.
To my dismay and utter delight, she’d installed one last night right above her porch, the world’s tiniest blinking red light daring me to try something stupid.
Challenge accepted.
I cut across the neighbor’s yard, boots crunching through day-old snow. My hoodie was pulled up, face turned away from the camera like I was starring in some amateur spy movie calledOperation Bubble Bath.
By the time I reached her front walkway, my hip protested every step. Not full-on pain, but a slow burn that screamed,You’re not cleared for tactical crouching, dumbass.
"Just drop the box, Beckett," I muttered. "Place it gently. No limping. No slipping. Definitely do not eat shit."
A quick glance at the camera, then I ducked my head again.
"Fuck." Thank God home security cameras weren’t a thing when I was a teen.
I set the box carefully on the welcome mat, note taped on top, and backed away like it contained an actual bomb, not a bath bomb. A gust of wind blew across the yard, and the note fluttered.
“No, no, no—” I half-launched, half-hobbled toward the porch, grabbed the note, and slapped it back on the box. My palm left a wet handprint right on top.
The camera beeped. A red light blinked back at me.
Frozen in place, I hoped the camera would lose interest. Emmy wasn’t standing in her studio with her phone in hand, watching a man in a hoodie fumble with a pastel gift box. Right?
With a grunt that sounded anything but stealthy, I straightened up and shuffled down the street like a half-melted snowman with a bad hip. One hand on my thigh, the other struggling to keep my hood up.
By the time I reached my truck, breathless and covered in sweat, I knew the box was on the mat and the note was in place.
Maybe she’d read it before rewinding the footage, or maybe I’d just lost every ounce of mysterious charm I had left.
“You’re late,” Shannon said as I walked through the door to the Pilates studio a few minutes later. One dark eyebrow was arched, but she’d become far less hostile toward me over the last two weeks.
“Traffic.” I pointed over my shoulder toward the mostly empty street behind us, glad I’d stopped panting on the drive over.
Shannon shook her head and glanced down at the phone in her lap. “She’s waiting for you.”
With a little salute, I walked into the studio and through the rows of reformers. Ruth was in today’s class and waved as I walked by.
Dirty Little Secretbegan playing over the speakers, and Istifled a laugh, wondering just how much Shannon knew of my escapades.
“Hi,” Emmy said as I turned the corner into the rehab room. “You’re here.”
I held my hands out to the side, trying not to look guilty. “I’m here.”
