Page 125 of Broken Trails
Carry It Well - Sam Fischer & Hana Effron
Ihaven’t spoken to my mother.
I meant it when I said I didn’t want to see her. And even though the silence eats at me, even though my stomach knots every time I glance at my phone, I’ve stuck to my word.
My dad, however, has called. Deep down, I knew he would. It’s what he’s always done. After any altercation with my mother, he’s always the one to bridge things. Of course, as expected, he told me that we “needed to talk.” And I’ve been putting it off ever since.
I’m halfway through folding laundry when the knock comes. Three sharp raps, then the door swings open, making me jump. “Jesus, Michael,” I scowl as I meet him in the hall.
He’s already walking in like he owns the place. Wearing a black long-sleeve shirt that fits a little too well and those worn black jeans of his that sit just right. Deliciously low, and I need to force my eyes away. His, however, sweep over me slowly, taking in my bare feet, oversized tee, the folded tea towel in my hand, and yet, he still looks like he wants to devour me.
“Get dressed,” he says simply. “You’ve got ten minutes.”
“Excuse me?”
“I’m taking you out.”
“You’re what?”
“Dinner. You and me. Now.”
I stare at him, stunned. “You can’t just—”
“I can,” he cuts in, stepping closer. His voice drops low, rough. “I’ve gone a day and a half without seeing you. I can’t do another. I’m not sorry.”
Michael smiles. The cocky, shit-eating grin he wears when he knows he’s won. Before I can fire back, he pulls three long stems of red roses —from who the fuck knows where—and holds them out to me. “Did you know the rose bush out the front is blooming? Looks real fucking pretty. Thought they were fitting. Pretty flowers, for my pretty woman.”
The words knock the air right out of me. My lips part, but nothing comes. I don’t know what to say. As casually as if this were the most normal thing in the world, he bends and presses a kiss to my forehead. “Ten minutes, Freckles.”
And then, like he didn’t just upend my entire night, he walks straight into the kitchen to greet Sprinkles like this is normal.
The restaurant’s in a nearby town, called Clifftop Haven. A thirty-minute drive through winding country roads, with the air cool and still by the time we arrive.
It’s… nice.
Secluded. Quiet. The kind of place with a manicured courtyard, mood lighting in the entrance, and French jazz playing low through invisible ceiling speakers. We’re seated in a booth tucked into the corner, partially hidden behind a velvet divider. The table’s set with white linen, tall candles, and glassware that looks like it’s been hand-polished three times over.
I sit stiffly across from him in a fitted black dress I haven’t worn in months. It clings a little too tightly around the waist and rides up when I move. He didn’t give me a dress code. And now I hate it.
The waiter appears and rattles off the specials with impressive memorisation. I order sparkling water. Michael gets a beer and flashes that lazy, charming smile that seems to melt waiters and bouncers alike.
As the man walks away, I glance around the room. Casual families. Parents with noisy kids and tired eyes. Two older couples in jeans and boots, laughing over shared desserts. No one here is dressed like me. And suddenly, I feel out of place. Too polished. Too tight. Too much.
“Relax,” Michael says, leaning back into the booth. “You’re drawing attention.”
“I am not.”
He raises a brow, grinning. “You’re fidgeting like you’ve got ants in your dress.”
“Well, maybe I do,” I mutter, tugging at the hem beneath the table.
Michael laughs. “You want me to check?”
I shoot him a look, but I’m smiling now, even if it’s just a little. The waiter returns, notepad in hand and a polite smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.
Michael doesn’t hesitate. “We’ll get the steak sandwich with chips, and the pumpkin and feta salad for her,” he says, nodding at me.
I raise a brow. “Didn’t realise you were ordering for me now.”
