Page 72 of The Persistence of Thornes
With a ghost of a smile, he turns to the counter and the tea bag lying next to a single mug. It’s wild, how easily he accepts my responses. He makes it clear he’s available to listen, but he doesn’t push.
While he fiddles with the teakettle, I pilfer through his cabinets, searching for the yellow cake mix I bought a few weeks ago and the two accompanying containers of chocolate frosting. I was saving it for a rainy day, but after that dream, I could really use a big slice of cake.
Before I can even set them on the counter, Caleb has pulled out a bowl and is digging through the drawer for the beaters.
“Thank you,” I say when he sets them on the counter next to me.
He hums. “What temperature for the cake?”
“Um.” I squint at the back of the box. The light is dim, but I prefer it this way. Like it’s easier to keep my demons hidden. “Three-fifty.”
While he preheats the oven, I dump the mix into the bowl, then pull the eggs from the fridge and the oil from the cabinet.
The kettle whistles, the shrill sound causing me to wince, but he pulls it off the heat quickly, and the room falls silent again.
“Do you like tea?” he asks, filling a mug.
I frown as I stick the metal beaters into the mechanism. “I don’t think I’ve ever had hot tea.”
Without a word, he snags another mug from the cabinet and dunks a tea bag into it. While they steep, he pulls out aset of round cake pans and greases them for me, even adding flour so they don’t stick.
It’s strangely intimate, working in tandem with him.
Once the batter is ready, I pour it into the pans and slide both into the oven, then set a timer on my phone.
Caleb adds a dash of milk to each mug and sets them in front of the stools at the counter. Then he eyes me, silently signaling that I should sit.
Without anything else to keep me busy, I quietly settle beside him and wrap my fingers around the cup.
Almost immediately, the warmth that seeps into my palms soothes me.
“Tea, huh?”
“I’ve never been the best sleeper,” he admits. “My mom would always make a mug of tea for me when I couldn’t sleep.” He takes a careful sip. “Couldn’t stand this shit for the longest time, but now when I have trouble sleeping, it’s my go-to.”
“My mom would sing to me sometimes,” I say quietly, focus fixed on my ceramic mug. “When she was sober and holding down a job, she was…” I smile as some of my better memories flit through my mind. “Really great.”
“Tell me something else about her. Something good.”
“Once,” I say, the recollection coming to me instantly, “she picked me up early from school. She’d packed a whole lunch for us. Sandwiches and Cheetos—my favorite at the time—and brownies. We went to a nearby park and sat at a picnic table. We watched squirrels and just… talked.” My smile fades, and the ever-present ache in my chest pangs. “It was nice. Really nice.”
Caleb gives me a soft smile in return. “That sounds like a great day.”
With a sigh, I take a tentative sip of my tea. “This is pretty good,” I admit.
He lifts his mug to his lips. “Glad you like it.”
“What’s your deal? Is there a reason you have trouble sleeping?” I ask. Maybe the question is too personal, but I’d rather not sit in silence.
He sighs, the sound weary and unexpected from someone who’s generally so upbeat, and draws his index finger around the rim of his mug. “I’ve been this way for as long as I can remember. My mom always told me it’s because my mind never quiets. That I feel like I’m wasting my life away with sleep when there are things to be done.”
I wet my lips, savoring the flavor of the tea. “Do you agree with her?”
“She had a good point.” He rubs at his jaw where a light dusting of stubble is beginning to grow. “I think it’s worse now—with my job,” he adds. “I’m always thinking about how many people out there need help, wishing I could just work more hours. Knowing that if I could, I could do more good. Don’t get me wrong, I realize that there will always be people in need, and I know that if I don’t take breaks, I’ll burn out, but sometimes, especially at night, my brain forgets all that.”
I take another sip of the warm tea, surprised by how much I enjoy the herbal flavor. “So,” I prod, “when you can’t sleep, you get up and make tea, and then what?” I’m suddenly curious about what his life is like when he’s alone.
He shrugs. “Itrynot to work, figuring that since my mind is consumed with it, giving in would only make the sleep issue more difficult.”
