I wish I could promise her safety, permanence, and certainty. But she needs more than just words; she needs tangible proof.
I slide off the bed and gently tap the nose of the bear resting on her belly. “Let’s go feed that bear.”
Her smile blooms, radiant and warm. “Okay.”
As we step into the kitchen, the atmosphere has settled, transforming the space into one of calm normalcy. Faulker and Hank are already immersed in their morning rituals, moving with a practiced ease. Drawers slide open and shut in a rhythmic cadence, creating a soothing backdrop. The absence of urgency feels like a balm for my frayed nerves, a welcome stability for Lucy.
Lucy carefully climbs onto a stool, using her left arm to navigate around the cast, and nestles herself comfortably. Her eyes are wide, taking in the scene with an intense curiosity. Faulker stands at the stove, cracking eggs into a pan with a precision that speaks to his focus. There’s no music playing, no distractions—just the quiet hum of concentration. He sprinkles salt over the eggs, nothing more, while toast pops up from the toaster, golden and plain, untouched by butter or jam. A protein shake sits patiently beside his plate, waiting.
Hank, on the other hand, leans casually against the island, stirring peanut butter into a bowl of oatmeal. The banana slices are meticulously arranged, as if they’re part of some culinary art project.
“You want some?” Hank asks, lifting the bowl toward Lucy.
She studies it, weighing her options, before shaking her head. “No.”
“Fair enough,” he replies, unfazed, continuing his task with an easy grin.
Faulker sets his plate down and finally meets her gaze. “We all need to eat to fuel our bodies,” he states calmly, not phrasing it as a question. “But you should choose something suitable for your size.”
Lucy contemplates this. “What is suitable?” she asks.
“Eggs. Yogurt. Fruit,” he responds. “Something that won’t betray you in twenty minutes.”
She nods, instantly persuaded. He cracks three more eggs into the pan. “How do you ladies prefer your eggs?”
Lucy glances at me, confusion flickering across her face, prompting me to clarify. “Yolks or no yolks?”
Still uncertain, she hesitates. Hank chimes in. “Should they look like the sun, or be scrambled and fluffy?”
“I’ve never had eggs,” Lucy admits, then turns to Faulker. “What do you like?”
“Scrambled,” he replies. “With a bit of cottage cheese for extra protein.”
She shifts her attention to Hank. “Do you like eggs?”
“I do,” he says cheerfully. “Sunny side up. You dip toast in the yolk.”
She looks back at me. “And you?”
“There are too many ways to cook eggs,” I confess. “I can’t pick just one.”
“Lucy,” Faulker says from the stove, his tone soft and gentle, “how about you try them two ways today, and perhaps two more while Hank and I are away for work over the next four mornings? You can tell us your favorite when we get back.”
“You’re going away?” she asks, her brow furrowing.
“Our job is to play hockey,” he reminds her, cracking another egg with precision.
“On the ice,” she confirms, recalling a conversation she had with Deacon when we arrived, and Faulker, likely while they did laundry together.
“That’s right.”
He slides a plate in front of her, showcasing two eggs prepared differently, then places two forks beside it. “Today, you’ll try my game-day eggs, for protein and strength, and Hank’s dippy eggs, for fun and mess-making.”
“Four mornings?” she asks, her eyes widening.
“Yep,” Hank confirms. “You girls get the whole place to yourselves.”
She gazes at the plate but doesn’t reach for it yet. “This is game day?”
