“They’re busy because something’s happening,” she says carefully. “Something big. But that doesn’t mean it’s your fault.”
Martha nods. “Kade loves you. He’s just scared. Angry. At himself. At everything. But not at you.”
“Then why won’t he look at me?” I choke out. “Why won’t he touch me? Why won’t he talk to me?”
The girls exchange a look. They’re worried. They’re hiding it, but I see it.
Fern rests her hand over mine. “Because you’re the person he loves most. And the thing that hurt you is the thing he can’t kill anymore. That eats men like him alive.”
Her words punch a hole straight through my chest.
I blink rapidly, fighting tears I’m so damn tired of shedding. “I don’t know how much more of this I can take.”
“You’re not alone,” Martha whispers, pulling me into her side. “We’re right here.”
But even surrounded by my girls, I’ve never felt more alone.
Fern suddenly stands, pushing her chair back with a scrape that makes me jump.
“Right,” she declares, rolling her sleeves up. “I’ve had enough of this doom-and-gloom bullshit. Martha, come on. Plan B, we’re doing it.”
Martha lifts her brows. “Now?”
Fern nods, eyes glittering. “Now.”
I watch them whisper-scheme like two kids about to rob a sweet shop. Martha bites her lip. “You know she’ll kill us if she catches us.”
Fern smirks. “She won’t. Maggie hides it behind the bag of flour.”
A reluctant laugh escapes me—small, weak, but it’s the first one in days.
Fern beams like she’s just won a prize. “There! Proof she’s still alive! Come on, Marts.”
I watch as the pair move to the cupboards, rummaging like thieves.
“That’s the wrong bag, dumbass,”
“It literally says flour,”
“Yeah, so does the one next to it!”
I press my fingers to my mouth, trying not to laugh again. The sound feels foreign in my chest, like something borrowed, something I don’t quite deserve.
A minute later, Fern and Martha reappear like victorious thieves, holding Maggie’ssecret Scotch bottle, nearly full, dusted in flour like it’s been buried for a decade.
“You can’t,” I whisper.
Fern grins. “Oh, we can. She calls this ‘cooking whisky’ because apparently Scotch makes a good marinade. But I’ve lived with that woman long enough, and I’veneverseen her marinate a damn thing.”
Martha sets three mismatched mugs on the table. “If she asks, we’ll say you needed it medicinally.”
Fern pours three generous measures. “Trauma tonic,” she explains, sliding one toward me. “Doctor Fern’s orders.”
“I really shouldn’t drink,” I murmur, glancing toward the window like Kade might storm in any second. I’m still waiting for a period, but Maggie insists it’s the trauma keeping it away.
Fern leans in, eyes soft. “It’s one drink. And we’re not doing this to get you drunk. Just loosen that knot you’re tied in.”
Martha nods, placing her hand over mine. “We’re not fixing everything tonight. Just giving you a break from it.”
