Page 53 of Crack the Ice

That pulls a laugh out of her, but I’m not done. I place my pointer finger underneath her chin and push up until she’s looking at me. “But I will take care of you, too. And when the time comes, and you and I get our moment, I’m going to take it.”

My hand moves from her chin to cup the side of her face, and she leans into my touch a bit. “You and I were written in the stars a long time ago, Cess. I’m sorry it took so long for me to realize it. I won’t make that mistake again.”

The words seem to hang in the air between us. Her sharp intake of breath dances against my palm as her lips part. Her lashes flutter, casting shadows against her cheeks that slowly turn pink. For a second, she looks so fragile that I’m afraid I may have pushed too hard, too fast, but I’m done playing games.

Then, all the tension melts out of her. I feel her jaw relax as she nuzzles into my palm, as if she’s finally letting herself be held after years of holding herself together. When those beautiful amber eyes reopen, her defensiveness is gone, replaced by a soft, clear longing, one I hope is mirrored in my own gaze.

One deep breath, a silent surrender, and then she speaks, reigniting my hope that we can do this, and do it right this time.

“Okay,” she murmurs. “Fine, give me until the end of the week, okay? I need to settle Sunny, and we have to loop the rest of our friends in, or it’ll be hell.”

I take a step back, shoving my hands in my pockets, because if I don’t, I’m going to pull her into me again. “Yeah, sounds like a plan.” I pause, weighing my options. I want to stay. I want to make sure she’s okay. But the kids, I need to make sure they know everything is good on our end. “I should probably get home,” I mutter.

“Yeah,” she whispers. “You should.” She doesn’t look up at me, and when I realize she’s retreating into herself again, I round the island and place a kiss on her forehead.

“See you soon, yeah?”

“Yeah.”

With that confirmation, I grab my keys and head to the door. “Lock up behind me, Cess.”

“Yes, Dad.” She crosses her arms as I pull the door closed. I let my head rest against it for two breaths before I pull away and head home. I’m sure I’ve got some reassuring to do.

NINETEEN

CECILIA

I have been in a tailspin for almost forty-eight hours. Two days since my brain hit a wall it couldn’t recover from, two days since I spilled the secret I swore I never would. Two days since my anxiety threatened to swallow me whole, only for him to quiet it in a way only he can.

My lips tingle with the force at which I’m humming as I scrub the everloving crap out of my kitchen. Sunny will be here later today, and while I know she doesn’t necessarily care if the house is spotless, I’ve been making myself take Sundays off from the bakery since we’re closed anyway. My brain, however, is not in agreement.

No, that sucker has run through everything it possibly could. Starting with, “you’re a failure if you don’t get up and bake something,” to “you told the one person you weren’t supposed to tell, and he acted like there was still a chance for the two of you,” and finally to, “what the hell were you thinking agreeing to watch kids? They’re the most unpredictable force on planet Earth, and you loathe last-minute changes.”

All of which are valid, yet none are what I want to focus on. Therefore, we clean. And apparently hum aggressively while doing so. I don’t even notice that it changes to something upbeat until I’m halfway dancing in the kitchen. It’s completely inappropriate for my current emotional state, but I can’t stop because somehow, stopping feels worse.

My phone is still face down on the counter in the same place I put it when I woke up at four fifty-two AM and saw his name on my notifications list. My stomach fell through the floor, and I dropped the damn thing like a hot potato. Haven’t touched it since. I don’t want to know what’s on it.

I scoff, my eyes rolling a little too far back into my head. Okay, that’s not true.

I desperately want to know what’s on it. I want to pick it up and find a text that makes everything make sense. I want him to have said something poetic in the dark of the night that magically fixes years of bullshit. Something that confirms he isn’t horrified, that would show he meant what he said.

Wanting and doing are two different things, though, so the phone stays where it is, and I start to reorganize my Tupperware by size. By nine AM, the pantry is alphabetized, and my head tells me how insane this is. Megan would have thoughts about this situation. She’d use big fancy words like “avoidance” or “anxiety response,” and she’d be correct. I’d wholeheartedly agree with her, and then do absolutely nothing about it.

The vacuum hits the corner of the baseboards as I pull it out of the closet. Does the floor need vacuuming? Nope, but maybe the low rumble will replace the need for humming… or the sound of me pathetically telling him I wanted a seat at his table.

Who the hell says that? Out loud? To another human being? Me, apparently.

It’s now ten AM, and I’m on my second load of bakery laundry, when there’s a knock on my door. My hand freezes over the washing machine, detergent pod still in my grasp. The dryer churns beside me, unbothered by the overtime it’s working today. And I stand in the hallway, hand hovering over the machine like it’s the only thing keeping me sane.

The knock comes again.

Oh God.

My head slowly trails down the front of my body, horrified at what I find. Cleaning clothes with bleach stains, hair haphazardly thrown up in a bun, the smear of some cleaning product up my arm, completing the look of hot mess express. Or maybe dumpster fire is a more accurate depiction right now.

“Cecy.” His muffled voice comes through the door.

Oh no. No, no, no. He wouldn’t have just shown up. He would have called first, texted at least.