He shakes his head. “She eventually heard someone saying her name and came down. Other than being very confused about why everyone was crying, she’s fine.” Hetakes in another deep breath, but when he lets it out, it comes out as a sob, his whole body shuddering.
“Oh,schatje.” I grab him and pull him in close, letting him rest against my shoulder. I can’t even imagine how worried he’s been for the last few hours. I’m on edge even thinking about it, and it’s not someone I know. I rub slow circles on his back as he cries on my shoulder. He says a few things I can’t make out, but mostly sobs. Every time I think he’s done, something seems to trigger him. I find myself wishing he’d called. That I was the one he turned to earlier when he needed support.
And instantly, I’m jealous of whoever he did call. Whatever friend picked up the phone and showed up for him, held his hand through the worst of it. Probably Silas. It makes sense since he’s a teacher at the school as well. I’m still irrationally envious.
The oven timer eventually forces us to part. “It’s the pie,” I say, torn between staying and not wanting to set my place on fire.
“Yeah, pie,” he says, sitting up and wiping his eyes.
It takes me a minute to decide, but eventually I get up and take the pie out of the oven, moving it to a cooling rack. If I let it burn, we’ll have even more problems once the smoke alarm goes off.
My kitchen is covered—literally—in baking supplies. Making pies feels stupid after what Adain’s been through, but there’s not a lot of choice at this point. He’s in no condition to contribute, which is fine, but I’d rather go back to the couch, pull a blanket over us, and spend the evening reassuring him.
I haven’t managed to decide when Aidan appears in the kitchen. “I got it. You should rest. I can handle the pies.”
“I want to help. It’ll be a good distraction.”
“Are you sure?” Who am I to tell him what he should or shouldn’t want at the end of a day like this?
“I’m sure. Put me to work.” If that’s what he says he needs, then I have to trust him.
“Okay, could you finish that maple syrup sauce?” I point to a big bowl with the newly purchased whisk. “Maybe you could give a few good stirs and see if it’s salvageable?” Like all good Vermonters, I have plenty of the real thing on hand in case we need to start over.
He nods and moves deliberately toward the bowl. I tear my gaze away, focusing on filling the second pumpkin pie crust. The chocolate fluffernutter and better-than-sex pie don’t require much baking, but the pumpkin and chocolate pecan do. That means the biggest bottleneck is in getting things in and out of the oven. By my calculation, at maximum efficiency, we’re likely to be looking at another two hours. Minimum.
At least Aidan’s here.
The thought pops into my mind without warning. Of course, I want my best friend here, who wouldn’t?
Still, I was doing fine on my own. Having a second person makes things easier and more difficult at the same time. It’s hard to explain why, but it’s true.
“Like this?” he asks, holding up the whisk as the gooey mixture drips off. There are bits of sticky syrup hanging off his hand as well.
“Yeah, like that.” My throat thickens, and I have to swallow a few times before I can speak again. “Looks good. Why don’t we go ahead and add that to the pie?”
“I’ll wash my hands first.” He makes a claw motion with his fingers. The urge to lick them clean crashes over me and almost knocks me off my feet.
Wildly inappropriate.
Even for fake boyfriends, that’s over the line, especiallywhen one of us has just been through a traumatic experience.
“Sink’s right there.” I nod toward it, as though it’s not completely obvious.
“Turn the water on for me so I don’t get everything gross.”
Doing so puts me dangerously close to Aidan. It takes every ounce of willpower to turn it on without staring at his hands or any other part of him.
“What kind of pie takes maple syrup sauce?” As hesitant as I was to let him help, the distraction does seem to perk Aidan up a bit. He’s even smiling, the color having returned to his face. It only makes me feel slightly better about the way my body’s responding to him.
“It’s called… better-than-sex.” A name that sounded cute and funny when I picked it out online. I’m only now realizing how often I’m going to have to say the wordsexover the next twenty-four hours.
“Really?” He cocks his head to the side and raises an eyebrow.
“That’s what the recipe says.” I point toward the tablet propped up on the backsplash, where the recipe’s displayed on the screen.
“Do you think it will be?”
“What?”
