At least, I hope she’s not. Because at some point in the very near future she’s going to be meeting my mother. And while my mother isn’t scary, I would imagine lying to her face probably is.
I wouldn’t know. I’ve never actually done it, but popping that metaphorical cherry is the least of my worries right now. Which is saying something since I have a lot of worries. Most I don’t even know where to start with. I opt to tackle an easy one first.
“Are you girls hungry?” I’d planned on having breakfast together this morning, but the whole day has gone to complete shit. It’s nearly lunchtime now, and my stomach is feeling it. I have to imagine Ruth and Birdie feel the same.
Ruth shifts on her feet. “You don’t have to feed us.”
“Actually…” I open the fridge and pull out the basics for one of my favorite lunches. It’s what I eat when I don’t feel good, or when I’ve had a shit day. “I kinda do, because there’s no grocery store or fast-food place anywhere around here.”
It would take Ruth at least an hour to grab something and make it back here. I can have all of us enjoying tomato soup and grilled cheese way before that happens. It’s not fancy, but it’s comforting, and we all could use a little comfort right now.
Ruth groans, bringing one hand up to rub at her forehead. “I didn’t really think this all the way through when I called you this morning.”
“That’s because you were scared.” I drop the cheese and butter onto the counter, lining a loaf of bread next to it. “And even if you could have thought it all the way through, there’s not a thing you should have done differently.”
I don’t like the thought of Ruth and Birdie being somewhere else right now. Not when I don’t know who exactly is threatening them. As long as they’re here, I’ll know they're safe.
Also, it will make our story more convincing.
Ruth seems to wilt a little, looking dejected and overwhelmed as she turns to the highchair I bought. After slipping her daughter into the seat and positioning the tray, she peels Birdie’s shirt over her head before carefully folding it and setting it out of reach. “There are actually a lot of things I should have done differently.”
I pull out a couple cans of condensed soup—my mother would be horrified at how much I like the shit—and dump the contents into a pot before pouring in an equal amount of water. “I think we all have things we wish we’d done differently.”
Ruth angles a brow at me as she slides onto one of the stools lined down the counter. “Yeah? What would you have donedifferently?”
I don’t think she expects the answer to this question to be so easy for me, but I actually have quite a list of things I would do differently if I could go back in time.
I would have made the exterior of my house a different color. Would have gone into custom building entire homes instead of just safe rooms. Might have even specialized in carpentry.
I would’ve gone downstairs the day Kara died to hug my mother instead of hiding in my room like a coward. I would’ve visited Titus more over the years so he didn’t feel quite so alone in his pain.
But those answers are either unworthy or too revealing, so I settle on something I hope is enough without being too much. “I would have ignored my future sister-in-law’s request to leave her ex-fiancé alone and laid him out across my mother’s kitchen floor.”
Ruth’s eyes widen on me from her spot across the island. “What?”
I fill her in on Brooke’s situation with Matt, and the way the guy showed up at my parents’ house out of the blue to demand she come back home with him. I don’t explain this to her because I want to gossip about Brooke. I don’t.
But I do want Ruth to know no one in this family expects her to be perfect.
And that we’re not against using violence when a situation calls for it.
When I get to the part about my mother cracking Matt over the head with a bottle of wine, Ruth’s skin pales. “Is your mom going to hit me with a bottle of wine if she finds out we’re lying to her?”
I chuckle, because the thought of my mother doing that is ludicrous in spite of the story I just told. “Absolutely not.” I shake my head for good measure. “But she will one hundred percentmake my life miserable. So if we can avoid that happening, I would very much appreciate it.”
I plate up grilled cheese and tomato soup, serving Birdie half a sandwich and a small bowl with an ice cube added to expedite the cooling process. I hand the toddler’s meal to Ruth so she can check my work and adjust anything, then watch as she cuts the sandwich into bite-size pieces, stirs the soup until the cube melts, and places everything in front of her daughter.
I give Ruth a sandwich of her own, along with a bowl of soup, then grab a couple bottles of water from the fridge, along with a cup identical to the one Ruth took on our trip to the park. Sitting down next to the girls, I open my water and add some of it to Birdie's cup before setting it next to her lunch. The little girl is already halfway through her sandwich bites and mostly covered in tomato soup, but it’s clear she’s enjoying what I made. Which is oddly satisfying. I don’t cook for anyone else. Not ever. On the rare occasion a woman spends the night, I’m usually escorting her to the door at dawn, sending her on her way without so much as a cup of coffee.
Because the parameters within which I live are sharp and definite. There can be no wiggle room. It leaves space for assumptions to be made.
And for feelings to get hurt.
“Thank you for lunch.” Ruth sips a little soup from her spoon, a slow smile working on her lips. “It’s actually really good.”
“I would say the credit for that is due more to Campbell’s than me.” I pick up half of my sandwich and dunk the corner into the steaming liquid, biting the saturated section off. “The grilled cheese though, that is all my culinary expertise.”
Ruth’s laugh is light and easy and makes me feel a little high. I’m used to making women laugh, but she makes me work for it. Ruth doesn’t give me a single smile I don’t earn, and the peoplepleaser in me loves that shit. Maybe the single man in me enjoys it a little too. She’s a bit of a challenge. And knowing damn well I’ve spent years coasting by on charm, good looks, and my family name, it’s nice to know I can stand on my own two feet.
