Page 32 of Four Simple Rules
“Breakfast sounds nice. I woke up too early and went to take some pictures of our tree. That’s when I found these,” she says, gesturing to the capsules I buried years before. “I can’t believe you wrote to me every day…”
“Let’s go talk about it over breakfast. I’ve learned a lot since I wrote those.” She nods, grabbing my hand when I extend it and pull her to her feet.
“Let me change first,” she says, walking to her bag on her desk.
“You look beautiful just the way you are,” I whisper, not thinking before the words slip out.
Her cheeks heat. “I’ll only be a minute.”
“Okay. I’ll throw some clothes on, too,” I say, opening her door.
“Jesse?” she calls out from behind her almost closed door.
“Yeah?” I whisper through the crack, listening to her deep breaths.
“Thank you,” she whispers, shutting the door the rest of the way, leaving me in the hallway with hope in my heart.
“What is this place?” Blake asks, staring at the old-fashioned diner beaming in the early sunrise. She squints, reading the name on the sign. “It wasn’t here before.”
A soft smile pulls at the edges of my lips. “Aunt May’s showed up about two years after you left. She was new to town and opened her dream diner. Mom and I have been coming here every Sunday since I left for college.” Warmth spreads across my chest at the memories of May’s kindness each and every time we walked through the front doors. “She lost her husband about ten years ago and had always wanted to do this. So now, she’s everyone’s aunt.”
She blinks several times, rereading the name. “You come here every Sunday with your mom?”
Right. It doesn't sound like something I'd do. Sundays were for sleeping in, moping about my shitty life while working through my painful hangover, and then drinking more. Weekends were for me. I was rarely home. And if I was? I was in Blake's bed, cuddling behind her. That's as close as I came to my mother back then. I wanted to defend her. Yet, I needed to protect myself, too. I was a selfish teenager, as most of them are. The intense guilt surrounding our abuse still clings on after all these years. I could have done more and been a better son. But I wasn’t. It will forever stick to me like glue, infecting my every thought.
“They have good pancakes and French toast.”
Blake sends me a skeptical look, huffing at my lack of an answer. She wants to know more about who I've become since she left. I lick my lips and take a deep breath, remembering the promise I made to myself and Blake. I’d be completely transparent and honest from here on out.
“I had a hard time adjusting to college life. It was great that Coach gave me a chance. I-I had a lot of nightmares, and coming home and hugging my mom was the only way to get rid of them. I’d drive every day to fall into her arms and ensure she was okay. So, I felt better. I had these visions of something bad happening to her, like my dad getting out of prison or something stupid. So, she made me a deal. If I stayed at Prembrook all week, she’d give me a room over the weekends. And then, we’d stop here for breakfast and talk for hours before I headed back.” I smile at the sign with fond memories of our time reuniting as son and mother. "It's where we reconnected."
That's an understatement. It was our healing. Our restart. Something we desperately needed after living under my father's strict roof. From there, we started therapy together and individually.
A warm hand captures mine, gently squeezing with reassurance. Chills run down my spine from that one simple touch.
And I never want to let her go.
"Then, let's have some French toast," she says, offering me a warm smile.
"I knew I could bribe you with your favorite breakfast," I chuckle, clinging to her hand as we walk through the front door.
A soft bell rings overhead, announcing our entry into the semi-packed diner. Several people sit spread throughout the red booths and tables, enjoying their early morning treats.
"Jesse Rutherford!" a woman's voice howls from the kitchen, stopping us.
I recognize her instantly by the sound of her motherly voice floating through the diner. My heart soars at the sight of her marching out of the kitchen with a grin, lighting up her weathered face.
A smile pulls at the edges of my lips. Warmth spreads through my chest, infecting the rest of my body with pure joy. Most people have a support system after something traumatic happens, and this woman was one of them.
"That's Aunt May," I murmur, squeezing Blake's hand.
Blake doesn't make a sound, standing rigidly watching Aunt May bounce from the kitchen toward us with her usual amount of energy. Most days, she’s like an excited puppy dog coming to greet us with a warm smile and massive amounts of love to give. Today, she’s in an extra cheery mood, flashing the biggest grin I’ve ever seen.
A large white apron hangs from her hips, covering her faded jeans and protecting her flowery top. Her short, gray hair is pulled into a tight ponytail. Her gray eyes bounce between the two of us when she finally stops, taking us in.
"Well, well. You're here without Miss Grace?" she asks, cocking her head to the side. Her gentle gaze looks Blake up and down with approval. A knowing spark lights up her face, and her grin widens.
"Aunt May, this is my good friend Blake. We've known each other since we were kids."
