I glance over at Kevin. “It was complicated. We talked, but it felt like she was holding back. I don’t know if she’s still holding onto something, or if I’m chasing after something that will never be at this point.”
Kevin leans over, tossing a stick in the fire. “You think she’s confused?”
"Maybe,” I say, rubbing the back of my neck. “I’m stuck in limbo. She’s engaged to someone else, man. But every time we’re around each other, it feels like there’s still something there, you know? Like she’s not completely over it, and I know I’m not.”
“Maybe you’re both waiting for the other to make a move.”
I stare into the fire, watching the flames dance around. After having that talk with B, it sounded like we both were waiting for one another to say something first. Neither of us made the first move—until I finally did. “I made my move. I should have done it sooner, because now look.”
"Well, brother, it looks to me you have to work a little harder at it, then.”
I let out a huff.
If only they knew how hard I’ve beenworking at itday in and day out, trying to rebuild what I tore apart. Not just for my family, although that’s the biggest part, but for myself, too. It hasn’t been easy. Hell, nothing worth having ever is. But Iwas determined. That moment it hit me—the realization that four years had slipped through my fingers like dust in the wind, wasted away—was like a punch to the gut. Four years went by that I could’ve been better, done better. Instead, I drowned myself in alcohol, numbing the pain, pretending it didn’t matter, that nothing mattered. But it did. Itdoes. And now, I’m trying to claw my way back to the surface, out of the mess I created, to prove—to myself and everyone else—that I’m more than the man I was. That I can be better. That I want better.
One night, I was listening to “Dust in the Wind” by Kansas. It was one of my dad’s favorite songs. I was listening to the lyrics, and while I rarely focus on lyrics, this night, feeling low, the lyrics struck me harder than any song ever had. I felt like my dad was speaking to me through the song. I’m sure he was disappointed at how I turned out. That night I cleared out my house of any alcohol and never turned back.
The soundof laughter wakes me up. I turn over to see if Amari is still sleeping but find the bed empty. More laughter erupts, making me question what is going on. I grab my phone and see it’s already ten o’clock in the morning. I kick the covers off me and let out a sigh at the thought of seeing Liam and B together. Even though I helped plan this vacation and knew he would be here, it doesn’t make it any easier.
A sweet, buttery smell makes my stomach rumble. It’s Sunday—the day we make pancakes. I round the corner and see Liam and B making the pancakes while everyone else is sitting at the table and enjoying themselves. Liam catches me walkingin and gives me a quick nod. B turns around with the spatula in her hand and pancake batter on her nose. I’m sure they make pancakes every Sunday, since it became a tradition for Blakely. I’ve had no doubt that they do it together, but seeing it hurts.
“Do you want some coffee?” Blakely points to the coffeepot. “I made a fresh pot.”
“Sure.” I grab a mug and pour myself a cup. “Thank you.” Her lips rise a little before turning back around and flipping the pancake.
We used to always make pancakes together. I remember, one day at her mom’s house, I went over and surprised them with all the ingredients to make pancakes—and the fruit toppings to go with it.
I hope I don’t disturb them on their pancake Sunday, I think to myself as I walk up to ring the doorbell. This is the first time in a long time that I haven’t woken up with a hangover from the night before. I know they’re going to be surprised when they see me. I woke up early to go to the store to buy all the essentials so I could come over and make them all pancakes, since I know they do this every Sunday.
Bryn opens the door, looks at the bags in my hands, and then up to me.
“Hey, Bryn.”
"H-hi,” she stutters, clearly confused.
“Are Blakely and Amari home? I brought stuff to make pancakes,” I say, raising the bags. My relationship with them hasn’t been easy. They’ve seen me drunk, begging for Blakely to come back to me, too many times to count. It’s finally the first time in a long time that I’ve come overon a weekend—at least sober. I never asked to cook for them, so I’m sure it’s making her even more confused.
She opens the door wider so I can step through. “B!” she yells. “Kai is here.”
I step through the door and notice that there is no smell of pancakes in the air. Good, I got here in time before they made them.
“What are you doing here?” B asks as she comes down the stairs, narrowing her gaze at the bags in my hand. Her hair is messy, and she’s still in her pajamas. I do a double take at what she’s wearing—my shirt. It hangs loosely on her, flowing down like a dress, and a wave of nostalgia washes over me. She used to always take my shirts and wear them to bed. I loved seeing her in them. She used to tell me she loved wearing them because she liked to go to bed with my scent on her.
I raise the bags once again, as if it’s going to prove something. “I came to cook pancakes for you guys. I know you guys do pancake Sundays.”
Her brows raise as she stares at me, confused. “Uh, you don’t have to.”
“I wanted to.” Brooke comes around the corner out of the kitchen, glancing at me.
“Hi, Kai. What are you doing here so early?”
What an impression I’ve made on this family. Everyone questions my presence this time of day on a Sunday.
“He wants to make us pancakes. Have you already started them?” B interjects.
Brooke shakes her head. “I was about to.” She pauses for a moment and looks between me and Blakely, as if something is going on between us.
“I can help you make them,” B says, coming down the last step. “If you want?”
