When Mom had been alive, our kitchen had smelled like this—savory meats and spices. Our house had been warm like this. Though with only three of us, there hadn’t been this hustle and bustle.
This was... nice. A lot nicer than coming home to a dark apartment lit by the Vegas skyline.
I took off my cowboy hat and shrugged out of my coat. Both looked like I’d been wearing them for years instead of days.
Mae sidled up to me, a bowl of steaming peas in her hands. “Do you mind if I make a plate for your dad? Would you be able to drop it off?”
Confusion sparked before my natural resistance to seeing my dad followed. Since we’d helped him the night of the AA meeting, I hadn’t seen him. “You don’t have to. I’m sure he’s eaten already.”
I had no fucking idea.
Her smile was kind, but a hint of obstinance glinted in her eyes. “I made a ton, and with the leftovers from last night, I’m going to be eating pasta and pork chops for weeks. I can also send leftovers for you and Autumn for lunches.” She squeezed my elbow. “Come. Let’s eat.”
She hadn’t taken my subtle no for an answer. I’d get a shitload of food and that would be that.
I sat at the empty seat at the table by Tenor. Teller was across from him. Tate and Chance were closer to Mae, who was flanked by Brinley and Darin. Cruz and Lane took the seats at the end by me. Dishes were passed counterclockwise and I filled my plate. Tate updated his mom about the day, and Tenor and Teller joined in with a story or two to make her laugh. I laughed along with them.
Then Tate asked Chance about school. The otherguys peppered the kids with questions. Teller bet Brinley she couldn’t eat more peas than him. She won, but I suspected Teller threw the game.
When was the last time I’d smiled this much? I was nothing but a spectator, yet I felt like part of the group. When the meal wrapped up, I helped clear the table and do the dishes.
Mae dug various plastic containers out of the cupboards and filled those along with a thick paper plate. “Thank you for doing this, Gideon.”
Lane clapped me on the back. “She says it like you have a choice.”
“Hey now.” She shot him a playful glare. “Don’t be selling my secrets.” She patted me on the shoulder. “Tell your dad I said hi.”
I only nodded, dreading the task.
I left on a wave of “See ya tomorrow” and “Bright and early.” I tossed my cowboy hat in the back seat. The food in my stomach molded itself into a bowling ball. How the hell did Mae talk me into this without really discussing it? My headlights lit the familiar stretch of road. A few snow flurries melted on the windshield. They were supposed to add up to nothing, but then later this week, we’d get measurable snow.
The house came into view. A porch light shone in the dark along with the glow from the living room. I parked in front of the walk and stared at the food containers. I’d get this over with and leave. I got out. When I reached the front door, I hesitated. The old wood smell of the porch surrounded me, along with the crisp promise of snow on the breeze. Nostalgia poured into my brain.
“Mom! Dad! Pickles had kittens!”
Pickles had been my favorite barn cat. She’d disappeared one day, and we’d assumed she’d become food for a larger animal. I’d been distraught, and Dad had taken me fishing.
My throat grew thick. Those memories did me no good. I rapped three times on the door. It swung open on the last knock. The door didn’t make a sound. He’d fixed that too. He was fixing everything but the relationship between us.
Dad’s lined face looked older with his hat off. His hair was trimmed short and mostly gray. He kept his mustache and beard trimmed. I’d gotten much of my looks from my mom, but I could see myself in the sweep of his shoulders and the shape of his face.
“I was wondering if that was you.” His gaze dropped to the plate.
“Mae claims she made too much food.”
His eyes lit up. “Did she now?” He turned away and left the door open. “Come on in.”
“No, I gotta?—”
“That Mae. She’s a good cook.” He looked over his shoulder as he went up the stairs. “You eat yet?”
I was still holding the food. I’d be a real dick if I just left with the goods.
Stepping over the threshold, I steeled myself against the feelings washing over me. “Yeah,” I said gruffly.
The smell was different. I had prepared for a stale-beer smell. A dried, dead yeast smell that was so unlike the thriving fermentation scents of the distillery. Instead, I was hit with a soft cinnamon aroma, so faint it was barely noticeable. The carpets were the same, everything I could see was the same, but it was... clean.
I hadn’t grown up in filth after Mom had died, butwe hadn’t been worried about total cleanliness. Things had been grungy. It was one of the reasons I’d been drawn to my immaculate penthouse.
