The place looks more like a construction zone than a home. It was supposed to be a project to get buried in, a way to keep my hands busy after my dad died. Something to fixwhen I couldn’t fix anything else. Only now, almost two months later, the kitchen still looks like this, and I can’t remember the last time I cooked a real meal.
I pull out the ingredients to make a sandwich for dinner—bread, deli turkey, and a six-pack of beer. Not exactly the most nutritious thing I’ve ever consumed, but then again, beggars can’t be choosers. After cracking open a beer, I hold it to my lips, debating on whether I even want it or not. None of this shit sounds appetizing, beer included.
Instead, I set the can down and lean against the plywood counter, letting out a breath as I put together the sandwich. This house was supposed to be a step forward, a fresh start, but all I’ve managed to do is collect more unfinished projects. Leanne’s voice replays in my head.You’ve always been welcome. That hasn’t changed.
The idea of Sunday dinner at the Ledger’s stirs something in my chest—nostalgia, maybe, or just dread. Nostalgia for the way it used to feel like family. Dread because I know Ellie will be upset by my presence.
I bite into the dry turkey sandwich and stare at the hole in the drywall above the sink, my mind already playing out the scene. Me, walking into their dining room like a decade hasn’t passed since I’ve been there. Leanne greeting me with a hug, Jack with a clap on the back. And Ellie, shooting me a death glare, or worse, being perfectly polite. Lately, I never know which version of her I’m going to get. It’s never the good one, that’s for sure. After the arrest, I’m not sure I’ll ever be graced with her good side again.
I take another unsatisfying bite and toss it back down on the paper plate, abandoning it, and walking into what’s supposed to be the living room. Right now, the only furniture is a camping chair and an oversized, mounted TV. Fuck, this place is depressing as hell.
I can either spend the rest of my night working on this shit show or I can go face the other mess I’m trying to repair.
Fuck it.
I’m going and Ellie is just going to have to deal with it. If I have any chance of getting past the walls she’s built up, I’m going to have to do things that make us uncomfortable. She needs to know I’m not going anywhere.
CHAPTER 6
Elyse
WHOLLY UNPREPARED
PRESENT
Sundays at my parents’ house always feel the same, same people, same rotation of meals, same everything. But not this time—this time Shane is the one behind the stove instead of my mom. He never thought he’d see the day, and I can tell my mom is hating every minute of it. Not because Shane is a bad cook—he’s actually amazing, classically trained and all—but because she always has to be in control, and right now she can’t be. Though, she did manage to convince my dad to take her grocery shopping in an attempt to cook tonight. We put a stop to that quicker than she could crank on the stove.
She’s been sulking about it ever since, shooting mom death glares our way.
The whole house smells like roasted chicken and fresh baked bread, with a hint of sweetness from whatever dessert Shane has going in the oven.
“What did you make?” I ask Shane as I ruffle his hair.
He shoos my hand away. “Bruh! Watch thehair.”
“I didn’t realize you were so vain.” I tease. “Why even try? We both know Gavin is the one who inherited Dad’s good hair.”
At the same time, we both turn to look at an oblivious Gavin, whose dark brown, shiny, locks are pulled back into a haphazard low bun. It’s honestly not even fair, he probably uses off-brand shampoo without conditioner. Genetics are such a bitch.
Gavin catches us both staring. “Why are you guys looking at me like that?”
“No reason,” we say in unison.
His nose scrunches. “You guys are weirdos.”
Gavin walks away and scoops Lily up, slinging her on his back for a piggyback ride. Her loud giggles fade, as they wander outside.
“I made a spatchcock roasted chicken, herby focaccia, and roasted garlic parmesan asparagus,” Shane finally answers, speaking animatedly as he points to the dishes.
He starts droning on about the dessert, but I tune him out as I open the freezer. Due to my untimely arrest, I never did get around to making those freezer meals I’d planned on. I expect to find it empty, with maybe a few packages of random frozen vegetables, but instead find it stocked to the brim with various freezer bags and meal prep containers.
“Who made all this food?” I ask, cutting Shane off from his chocolate soufflé speech.
He scoffs. “Who do you think?”
“I was going to make them,” I say, my voice pitching higher as my defenses kick in.
Shaking his head at me, he laughs. “Yeah, well then you became a little jailbird and someone had to step up to the plate.”
