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“That’s a good thing for a dad to do,” I told her. I picked at the piece of crust on my plate. Anya and I shared many commonalities, but the way they played out was very different. Brooke never really talked to us about our dad after he died. Only that his absence left her alone and short of funds. My own memories of him were spotty and certainly nothing that would be told as a bedtime story.
“He’s the best dad,” she asserted. “He tries to bake her cookies for me even though he can’t get them right.”
I smiled. “She made good cookies?”
Anya nodded, then studied my face carefully. “Do you bake?”
Emmett laughed. “No way, Isabel is the worst baker in the world.”
“Hey,” I argued.
Anya’s face scrunched in thought. “I don’t really remember her baking. My grandma told me my mom was sweet as sugar and twice as nice. And everyone loved her because she was nice to every person she met.”
Her words were so innocent, and no matter how much I was feeling for her dad, I felt the pang of what they’d lost. The absence of Aiden’s wife left a ragged hole he was trying to fill by moving here.
Who was I to think that I could ever attempt to fill it? He’d married this person. Had a child with her. Quit his career at the very peak in order to care for them both, and from what I knew, didn’t hold an ounce of regret in leaving all of it behind.
“Your mom sounds like she was an amazing person,” I told her gently. “I wish I could’ve met her.”
Anya smiled, but her eyes were a little sad.
Emmett pushed his plate away. “Wanna go in the treehouse?”
“I’ll clean up,” I said when Anya nodded.
The two scampered outside, and as I loaded the dishwasher and wiped down counters, I tried to untangle everything I was feeling.
My tendency under normal circumstances would be to hit the bag. To push my body to sweaty exhaustion until I could make sense of what was tumbling through my head. At the moment, it wasn’t an option, and it made me feel twitchy and uncomfortable.
Anya’s words about her mom had me feeling twitchy for an entirely different reason.
Memories of the one who raised us, they were murky, not all good. But not all bad either. Briefly, I thought of the bracelet in the metal box.
I set the plate of leftover pizza in the fridge, and when the door closed, I found myself staring at a photo of Molly and me at a Wolves game. Suddenly, I couldn’t call my sister fast enough, after weeks of not really knowing what to say.
Hopping up on the kitchen island, I brought up her name and started a FaceTime.
It was her last couple of days on a work trip, but when she got home, she’d be in the final stretch before the wedding. I held my breath when she connected the call.
She smiled, but it was restrained, her eyes a little wary.
I’d done that.
I started tearing up immediately. “I’m sorry,” I said in a wobbly voice.
“Oh, Iz,” she sighed. “I’m sorry too. I dumped it on you. I should have known better.”
“Did I ruin your wedding planning?”
She laughed. “No. That’s the beauty of having a wedding planner. She’s taking care of almost everything.”
I nodded. “Good.”
“You at home?”
Still, even though none of us lived here anymore, we called it home. I nodded again. “Watching Emmett for a couple of days because everyone has a life except me. How’s work?”
“Good.” She tucked a piece of hair behind her ear. “Are you okay, Iz?”
