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But it smelled great. She was taking a loaf of fresh bread out of the oven as he came into the room.
“Hey, Mama.”
“Well hi, love.” She set the loaf pan on a trivet and slipped oven mitts from her hands, then came over with her arms up.
Eight hugged her, and she kissed his cheek as she settled into it.
He felt better, calmer, immediately. “Missed you.”
“I’ve been right here, love. Always am.” She started to lower her arms, but Eight wasn’t ready for the hug to end. When he didn’t ease back, she settled in again, and squeezed him a little tighter.
This woman here was the only one who’d ever, in his whole life, hugged him like this, like he was important, like she cared. Sure, he shared hugs with his brothers sometimes, and he’d hugged their old ladies or kids from time to time, but they were unfailingly awkward. Nobody looked to Eight for moral or emotional support. Ever.
Not even Beck had, frankly. And why would anybody, even Beck, look his way? He was the guy who stood off and watched everybody else have a life, who pushed bad shit off with a shrug and a shit-eating grin. He was the guy who always said the wrong thing, who never had the appropriate emotion at the appropriate time.
He’d made himself into that guy, long before he’d worn the Bull. That guy didn’t let shit near him, so shit couldn’t get to him. That guy hadn’t needed anybody—and hadn’t had anybody.
Eight was beginning to think he wasn’t that guy so much anymore. But who was he, then?
“What’s wrong, love?” Mo asked, still snugged against his chest.
He backed off and looked down at her. “Something. Not sure what. Can we talk about it?”
“Of course. You want something to eat while we talk?”
His stomach rumbled like it had ears of its own, and Eight and Mo both laughed.
“Wouldn’t mind some of that fresh bread, unless you made it for special.”
“Nope. Just baked some bread. You want toast—or maybe French toast? I’ve got bacon, too. Or would you rather have an early lunch? A BLT?”
Eight was suddenly ravenous, and he realized he hadn’t eaten since pizza with Marcella and Ajax.
“French toast and bacon sounds awesome.”
She patted his arm. “Come help me make. We can talk while we cook.”
Eight wasn’t much of a cook, but he could follow orders. He slipped his kutte off and hooked it over the back of a chair at the breakfast table, washed up, and prepared to play assistant chef.
While he manned the bacon in a cast-iron skillet, he asked, “What’s D up to today?”
She flapped a dismissive hand toward the hallway. “He’s in his office, working on one of his models.”
A couple Christmases ago, Simon and Deb had given him a big Revell model kit of a Vietnam War-era plane. Simon was big into models himself, building intricate pirate ships and shit. That kit had been no kids’ toy.
D never talked about the war, but that model had obviously struck him right in the heart. He’d gotten emotional—a rare occurrence—and explained that it was exactly the kind of plane he’d jumped out of into combat.
Since then, he’d developed a full-blown hobby.
“He’s still into those?”
“He’s obsessed. Eight, ten hours a day hunched over his magnifying lamp like building plastic planes and bikes is his job.” Mo gave him a sidelong look. “You didn’t come down here to talk about Brian’s models. What’s going on, love?” She flipped the toast over in her skillet and pointed the spatula at his. “Those are done. Onto the paper towels, and turn off the burner.”
Eight did what he was told. “I’ll tell you when we sit.”
“Get a plate down, then, and pour us some coffee.”
When Eight’s breakfast was plated and two cups of coffee were prepared the way they each liked it, Mo and Eight sat down. Now that it was time to tell her, Eight was losing his nerve.
