TRU
Love doesn’t always show up with flowers. Sometimes, it’s a rock with an apology carved into it.
The kitchen smelledlike cinnamon and butter and store-bought frosting. Christmas music hummed low from the speaker Mom clipped to the fridge, and I was elbow-deep in red sprinkles and frosting, trying to make my Santa cookie look less like a blood-soaked crime scene.
Mom hummed along as she iced a snowman. Her sleeves were rolled to her elbows, and one of John’s old flannel shirts was tied around her waist like an apron. She’d pulled her hair back in a messy bun, flour dusting her temples. She looked happy. Relaxed and settled in a way I hadn’t seen since—maybe since before she married Dare’s dad.
“Hold still,” she said, and before I could ask why, she reached across the counter and wiped something off my face with her thumb.
“Frosting,” she added. “You always did get more on yourself than the cookies.”
I huffed a little, but she smiled at me, really smiled. Not the distracted, half-busy version, but one of those warm, mom-moment smiles that made my chest pinch.
“I’m so glad your skin cleared up,” she said, patting my cheek. “Freshman and sophomore year felt like a never-ending battle. I swear we went through pimple cream like water.”
My ears burned immediately. “Mooommm.”
“What? You did! I should’ve bought stock in Neutrogena.”
Before I could retort, the door from the garage creaked open. I didn’t have to look to know who it was. Dare walked in carrying a case of soda from the trunk, hoodie sleeves shoved up, cold air still clinging to him. He took one look at my face—red as a peppermint, I’m sure—and smirked.
“I heard the wordpimples,” he said, grinning. “Are we roasting baby Tru now? Because I wouldloveto contribute.”
“Shut up,” I muttered, glaring at him.
He set the soda on the counter and leaned against the fridge, arms crossed, just watching me with way too much amusement.
“I’m just saying,” he added, “those were somehistoricyears.”
My mouth opened in outrage, but Mom just laughed and flicked a bit of green icing at him. “Don’t be mean. He was a hormonal teenager. So were you.”
Dare shrugged, eyes still on me. His grin softened around the edges, still teasing, but with something gentler underneath. Like maybe he remembered those years too. I was almostgrateful for his absence during that time. He missed the truly humiliating stuff, like how I’d skip dessert because sugar made it worse, or how I used to sit with my chin in my hand during dinner so no one could see the right side of my face.
“I kinda liked you better with pimples,” Dare said casually, pushing off the fridge. “You were easier to ignore.”
He walked past me, brushing his hand low across my back, where Mom couldn’t see.
I sucked in a breath and glared harder, but it was half-hearted now. My face was still burning, but for a whole different reason.
Mom just shook her head, focused on her cookies again. “You boys,” she said fondly.
If only she knew.
Mom glanced toward the doorway just as Dare was about to slip down the hall. “Oh, Dare, hang on a sec.”
He stopped and turned halfway, eyebrows raised. “Yeah?”
She wiped her hands on a dish towel and gave him a pointed look over the counter. “Your dad and I are going to the Martins’ Christmas Eve party after dinner. Grown-up thing. Dress code’s apparently ugly sweaters and mulled wine.”
Dare snorted. “Sounds like a riot.”
“But,” she continued, aiming a mom-look at both of us, “I expect everyone up bright and early tomorrow morning for breakfast and presents. No sleeping till noon, no pretending you forgot what day it is. Your brother will be here around one for Christmas dinner, but before that, it’s just us around the tree.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Dare said with mock solemnity.
I mumbled something in agreement, but my stomachtwisted a little, not because of Christmas or the party, but because that meant Dare and I would be home alone tonight. No parents. No supervision. Just us, under one roof.
Mom ruffled my hair as she passed, humming along with the music again. Dare caught my eye over the counter, and there was a flicker of mischief, maybe, or nerves, or the same quiet anticipation curling in my chest.
