After she has finished, I hand her the migraine meds and a glass of water, staying beside her until she falls back asleep. My heart feels like a lump of stone in my chest as I watch her sleep, imagining how and when this will end. Because it can’t continue like this. Slowly, she is killing herself, and I’m forced to be a bystander. I wish I knew how to help her, but none of my interventions ever work. And they never will. Not as long as it suits my father to keep my mother in chains.
I scrub my hands over my face, and my limbs feel weary with exhaustion as my cell vibrates in my pocket. It’s a text from West, inviting me to Sunday dinner. It’s a long-standing invitation. One Kendall issued when she realized the kind of homelife I’m forced to endure. I haven’t attended in months because I’m trying to stay away from her—the woman who is the holder of my heart and my dreams.
But I’m vulnerable today. A bit hungover from last night and heartsore because Mom is a freaking mess. Seeing Kendall’s face will make everything seem better. So, I message West back, telling him I’ll be over later.
My mind churns as I exit Mom’s bedroom and quietly close the door, my thoughts instantly turning to the woman I have forbidden feelings for. I used to think the way I felt about Kendall was because she’s the perfect example of how a mother should be. Like she was the embodiment of everything I should have and was denied. That I was compensating for the lack of motherly affection in my life by channeling those sentiments in her direction.
But now I’m older, I know I was wrong.
That’s not it at all.
The feelings I have for her are not motherly in any way, shape, or form.
And I’m not compensating for the lack of a mother figure in my life.
It’s justher.
Everything about her enchants me. It’s not only her gorgeous face and tempting body. It’s the very essence of who she is as a person. Something in her speaks to the very core of me, in a way I can’t properly explain. No other woman has ever attracted me on this level, and I’m beginning to think no other woman will.
Kendall is one of a kind. From her carefree sense of humor to her obvious intelligence. Her compassionate and caring nature that sees her sacrifice and do so much for her loved ones and the community. A shared passion for understanding the intangible and the inexplicable, and her dogged determination to live the fullest life. She inspires me and gives me hope, and I can’t help but be drawn to her.
Society would say it’s wrong to feel like this.
That I’m too young—for her and to know my own mind.
But Idoknow my own mind.
I know what I’m feeling.
What I have felt from the moment she first entered my orbit.
I couldn’t explain it then.
But I can now.
I’m in love with Kendall Hawthorne.
I love my best friend’s very married mother.
I just don’t know what the hell to do about it.
3
KENDALL
The doorbell chimes, and butterflies swoop into my belly. I hadn’t expected Vander to accept West’s invitation. He seems determined not to join us for Sunday dinner anymore, and while it disappoints me, I know it’s for the best. I’m not sure what’s changed today, but I know why my stomach is lurching like a herd of wild elephants is stomping all over it.
“I’ll get it.” West yells from the living room, at the same time Stella puts the chef’s knife down and moves away from the kitchen counter.
“Stay put, missy.” I pitch her a knowing look. “Let your brother greet his friend.” Stella will try everything and anything to get out of helping around the house. While I have tried to pass my love of cooking and baking to my only daughter, I threw in the towel a long time ago.
Stella is the quintessential tomboy, more at home playing sports and climbing trees than slaving over a hot stove, and I wouldn’t have her any other way. She is true to herself, and she owns it, making me incredibly proud. Yet, I worry about her more than the boys because she is stubbornly brave and reckless and prone to acting without thinking.
Living with her is interesting too. If chaos descends, you can bet Stella is at the center and relishing it. She likes pushing buttons and testing boundaries, and we have been at our wits’ end with her on several occasions over the past few years, but she seems to have moved past that destructive rebellious phase. Her bedroom is like a bomb site and way messier than the boys’ rooms. Something neat-freak West always teases her about. I don’t bother calling her out on it anymore. I just close the door and ignore the chaos. She’s almost seventeen. Old enough to tidy her own shit.
Since Curtis’s big promotion and accompanying salary increase, I hired a lady to come in to clean and do laundry once a week. I work full-time and run the household and the kids almost single-handedly now, so I refuse to feel guilty for hiring some help. Ruthie is a godsend, and there is nothing like coming home on a Friday, after a long working week, to a sparkling house and an empty laundry basket.
“Why don’t the boys have to help?” Stella whines, dumping the cooked carrots in the strainer.
