Page 19 of Back to December
“That’s okay.” I hand her the remote like it’s a treaty and a promise. “Turn on a show or a movie. I’ll go downstairs and make sure the rest of the shift is covered, or I’ll close up the shop. And then we can pick up food. Or order in. Whatever you want to do.”
She doesn’t answer, just takes the remote and curls tighter beneath the blanket.
I head downstairs to close up and reconsider my decision when McKenna’s eyes settle on mine. She waits until I’m closer before she pounces.
“Is she okay?”
“I think she’s trying to be,” I say.
“Is it her wicked momster? That’s not nearly as fun to say without thesteppart.”
I bite back a laugh. “Kenna, you shouldn’t talk about her mom that way.”
Even if I agree on every level that something is seriously off where her mom is concerned. My knowledge about her is limited, but I know Laila well enough to know that she keeps it that way on purpose.
A chill runs down my spine.
I’m pretty sure the less I know, the better.
“I only call it like I see it,” she sighs. “I already closed the bakery.”
Tension slides from my shoulders. “You didn’t have to do that.”
“Look. I know you treat Laila with kid gloves and you prefer to keep her hidden away from everyone, but a blind man could see that her mask is half permanent.”
“I’m not trying to keep her hidden away, Kenna,” I mumble. “We just usually only have?—”
Her head bobs, her wild black curls joining the movement. “A weekend. I get it. But Holden, that woman needs a friend. Or abunchof friends.”
For a pain in my rear, my sister can be wildly astute when she wants to be.
“I’m her friend,” I say.
“Mmmm, no. You’re the love of her life.”
I swallow. She’s never called me that—not exactly. But her actions somewhat support what McKenna is saying. Laila has always been more about actions than words anyway—I’m the one with the words.
“I can’t be both?”
McKenna’s smile softens. “Youcan. But she needs other people, too. There are certain things only another woman would understand.”
“Kenna’s been reading those Aurora Thorne paperbacks again,” I mutter to myself. Half of her advice sounds like something out of a fairytale.
She’s the sibling I’m closest to, mostly because of age—but also because I’m nothing like my brothers. We all have great relationships, but we just don’t click. Not like Logan and Alex do. I happily stepped into the bakery space, living in the little apartment over it, and Logan is out playingprofessional football for the Frost Giants, and Alex is a bartender for the Jolly Roger Rum Bar.
McKenna does a little of everything, including helping at the bakery sometimes. We’re both homebodies, and my brothers are barely ever home.
But it’s not like I’ve never talked to her about Laila. There’s just a lot she doesn’t know about us.
She’s a little brighter when I come back through the door a little later, hands full of her favorite foods from the taco truck—and, because I can’t help myself, a pack of those store-bought sugar cookies she loves and I think are disgusting. We watch the police drama she’s turned on and eat in comfortable silence. As if this is perfectly normal for a Tuesday evening after work.
I could get used to this.
I want this.
Once we’re done, I gather up our trash and, because I’m too wired by her sudden appearance to sit still, I pull a container of dough out of the fridge. I’ve got a habit of bringing extra up here from the bakery. Not really because I want or need it, but maybe I subconsciously am hoping for exactly this. For Laila to show up on a random weekday, and I can bake her cookies.
As I’m rolling it out on the counter, she gets up and pads over to the other side of the counter, perching on a stool to watch. Laila barefoot in my kitchen with her hair knotted on top of her head is a memory that’s going to brand me forever.
