Page 55
Kingston chuckles. “And pro: we get to leave when it gets weird.”
“Which it will.”
“Which it always does,” he agrees, kissing the corner of my mouth.
“Con: My mother will pretend everything is fine until it’s not. Then she’ll make some backhanded comment about how I should’ve married Fletch and saved everyone the shame.”
Kingston stiffens beside me but doesn’t say anything. Just threads his fingers through mine and squeezes.
“Con: My siblings will either ignore me or stare at me like I’m a soap opera plot twist. Or both,” I add with a dry laugh.
Another beat of silence.
“Still want to go?”
“No.” I rest my forehead against his shoulder. “But I think I need to.”
And that’s how we end up in his SUV three days later, a duffel bag in the back, snacks in the console, and my anxiety riding shotgun with one hand clenched tight around my chest.
The sky is a moody slate gray as we leave Manhattan behind, buildings blurring into trees and long, winding stretches of highway. Kingston’s hand finds mine somewhere past Stamford, and he doesn’t let go.
The air inside the car is warm and lemon-clean, the stereo playing some mellow playlist he swears isn’t curated for road trips but totally is.
We talk. About everything and nothing.
“My mom used to keep score like it was a sport,” Kingston says, one hand on the wheel, the other still gripping mine. “If my dad was late, she’d tally it. If he missed a parent-teacher night, she’d store it like ammo.”
I glance at him, quiet. “Did they fight a lot?”
“Not loud. Not the kind of fights you hear through walls. More like silence. Like… a glacier that’s always melting but never cracking.”
God. That hits a little too close to home.
“What about Lyken?” I ask gently.
He smiles, small but warm. “Kid’s got more natural talent than I ever did. Full ride for hockey. Some school up in Maine. He’s a forward, quick on the ice. Has that smart-ass charm, too. My mom calls him her golden boy.”
I raise a brow. “And what are you?”
He pauses. “The one who left.”
I don’t push, but I don’t have to. His grip on the steering wheel tightens, the muscle in his jaw ticks.
“Guess we both have complicated family trees,” I murmur.
He huffs a laugh. “We’re the whole damn orchard.”
By the time we cross into Massachusetts, my nerves have bloomed into something ugly and tangled in my chest. My palms sweat. My stomach twists. I stare out the window like the trees might give me answers I already know.
Because no matter how much I tell myself this is just dinner, just one night, just a simple visit…
It’s not.
It’s seeing my mom again.
It’s facing the echo of every word she’s ever used to cut me down.
It’s standing across from the woman who made me feel like love was something I had to earn, and knowing she still thinks I failed.
