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“Hey!” Sam glances up briefly from one of many pots on the stove, but doesn’t really make eye contact, then finishes stirring. “Wow, you’re here late. Why are you up? I thought you were going to try and get more sleep these days?”
“Yeah…” I forgot to think of a reason to be here. I hate lying and don’t really do it much, which is probably why it didn’t occur to me I might need one, or two, or many right now. I divert. “Can I help with anything? You guys all being out tonight probably ate into your prep time. I don’t need to get to bed early since the clinic is for emergency only and I’m not on call. Day off tomorrow.”
My mom sits on the sofa in the open-plan living room with Eve and spins to lift her mug of hot cocoa. “Pumpkin spice hot cocoa recipe.”
“Is it good?” I ask.
“Not worthy of tomorrow, but decent.” Mom keeps her eyes fixed on my face.
She searches me carefully, and I wonder if the ice cubes and touch up in my rearview mirror weren’t enough to wipe away the past six hours of heartache.
She pushes herself up from the couch and joins us in the kitchen where Sam and Colt haven’t paid me too much attention because they’re working on putting things together for the meal. I sit on one of the breakfast bar stools.
Sam puts a plastic sack of peas in front of me and a bowl. “You want to help? Get shelling.”
I reach into the bag and take a pod. “Is this necessary? In this day and age?”
Mom arrives by my side and puts her arm around me, kisses my cheek greeting me, and I try not to lean into her motherly embrace, the very comfort I came here seeking. I need toactnormal to get to normal. Fake it ’til you make it.
Mom grabs a pod and opens it with her nail. “Frozen peas are for weekdays. Nothing but the best for holidays.”
Sam blows hair off her forehead after checking the food in the oven. “Right. A couple more minutes for the breadcrumbs.”
Colt wraps his arms around Sam. “Mind if I take Eve up to bed? It’s late.”
“Yeah, the girls are here now. Anyway, we’re just about done.”
“Don’t take your eyes off the onions,” he instructs.
“Burnt onion makes everything bitter,” Mom adds.
Bitter, like my life.
“I got it,” Sam says, not sounding like she has it at all.
It’s creeping up on eleven, she’s been at work, to and from Santa Fe for a hockey game, and still manages to prep for tomorrow. She is a superwoman. I wish I had her strength. But it’s her first big holiday with us, and she must find horse folk crazy. It’s tradition to stay up late in our family and get as much done as possible, because when you have a ranch and animals, the morning doesn’t afford much free time.
When we were younger, our dad made us help with the horses every single day, and on no condition were we allowed to outsource our horse to the ranch hands. He wanted to instill work ethic. As such, if it was Christmas, Thanksgiving, or any other special occasion, we had to pull long nights to get everything ready because where my dad was immovable about us helping at the ranch, Mom was just as stern about us participating in the kitchen. I guessthat’s why none of us blink when we have to roll up our sleeves. All us Hunters are industrious. But also maybe why I was unable to see when I’d reached my limits. Grinding is in the Hunter blood.
Mom and I peel open green pods, not complaining about all the work with no reward. Like my lifetime of pining after Ashton Dane, these pods will take an eternity to shell and will be eaten in a millisecond, disappear within an instant, like they never even existed… like they never even mattered…
“Sweetie? You okay?” My mom’s soulful, dark eyes reach into me.
But even though at my house I yearned to be held by her and comforted, this isn’t the time or place.
One of the hardest things about all of this is that nobody will ever know. I just had the most euphoric, heavenly weeks of my life, and I’ll never be able to tell anyone. I’ll never be able to relive the memory. All these thoughts of unappreciated peas and having to repress the best thing that ever happened to me make my eyes well up.
“My eyes are dry and tired. Long day. Lots of onions in here.”
“You sure?” She’s not convinced.
I nod quickly. Too quickly. She narrows her eyes at me. My mom can have a storm of meal prep around her and still see where her calm touch is needed.
She drops her gaze to the peas again. “The boys did well tonight.”
The boys.Logan. Ashton… the Scorpions. A lump forms in my throat. I knew they won because before I fell asleep and Ashton got back, my mom texted me the final score. And also, I have NHL and NFL score alerts on myphone. I’ll need to delete that app. Constant reminders of hockey will be excruciating.
“But Ashton seemed very off his game,” she adds. “There wasn’t one roar for the Great Dane tonight, I tell you. Missed after missed opportunity.”
