Page 85 of Penalty Kiss
"I help him remember things," I say carefully. "Track appointments, medications, make sure he eats actual food instead of surviving on protein bars and stubbornness."
"Ah." Luke leans forward, and I can practically see the medical gears grinding. "External cognitive support. That's actually quite therapeutic for PCS patients. Memory scaffolding can—"
"She's not my memory aid," Cam interrupts, voice going sharp as surgical steel. "She's my girlfriend."
The silence that follows could be dissected with a scalpel.
"Well," Hana chirps, "I think that's absolutely wonderful! Don't you think so, Erik?"
Erik's response comes wrapped in clinical caution. "I think it's... complex."
"Complex how?" I ask, because if we're doing full family evaluation, let's do it completely.
"Brain injuries affect judgment," Luke jumps in and explains gently. It’s kind but it also feels like he's talking to someone who might not grasp basic concepts. "Emotional regulation, risk assessment, decision-making capacity—"
“Luke." Cam's voice drops to arctic. "Stop. Right there."
The temperature at our table plummets about twenty degrees. Gone is easy-going Cam, replaced by something much more dangerous.
"You want to question my judgment? Fine. But you don't get to do it through her."
"And FYI, my judgment is perfectly fine.”
I catch the strain underneath his words.
"Is it?" Erik asks quietly. "Because from what we understand, you're currently involved with someone who has... dangerous family complications. People following her, threatening messages—"
"People following her?" Hana's voice goes sharp with maternal alarm. "What people?"
I feel their attention like a physical weight—three pairs of eyes, plus Cam's worried gaze, focused on me with varying degrees of concern and suspicion.
This is it. The moment where I either pass the Wilder family inspection or get permanently filed under "negative influence on patient recovery."
"My family is complicated," I say, choosing each word like I'm defusing a bomb. "I left home a few years ago because I disagreed with their... business philosophy. They've been trying to convince me to come back ever since."
"What kind of business?" Erik presses.
Cam's entire body goes rigid beside me, and I feel his protective instincts kick into overdrive. His voice carries a warning, "Careful."
"The kind that makes people extremely wealthy and extremely controlling." I answer quickly.
It's not exactly a lie. Just not the complete, terrifying truth.
Cam's hand finds mine under the table, fingers threading through mine with possessive certainty. His palm is warm, calloused from hockey. His thumb strokes across my pulse point.
"And you're comfortable with this situation?" Erik asks Cam directly.
"I'm comfortable with her," Cam replies firmly. "The situation is temporary."
Hana leans forward, eyes bright with curiosity that feels infinitely safer than medical interrogation. "Tell me about your work, honey. Cam mentioned you're a waitress?"
I draw in a steady breath. Here's where I either crash spectacularly or prove exactly why I'm good for her son.
"I work at Mane Street Bistro, here in downtown Cedar Falls," I begin. "It's not glamorous, but I love it. I get to know people, remember their stories. Like Mrs. Jackson—comes in every Tuesday, orders chicken salad sandwich, no tomato, extra pickles, sweet tea. But what she really comes for is someone to listen while she talks about her late husband. Married forty-seven years, widowed six months ago. She orders his favorite pie every time and leaves half uneaten because she's not ready to stop including him in her routine."
I gesture with the spoon, tuck a stray napkin under a glass, brush crumbs into my palm as I keep talking. The Wilders watch with growing surprise.
“Ben Navarro,” I add with a little smile. “Coffee and muffin at six-fifteen sharp every morning. But when I notice his arthritis’ flaring up, I slide a warm towel from the teapot warmer into his hands. He calls it my ‘spa service.’ Tips an extra dollar every time.”
