“The lines are looking a little blurry, Snow,” I whisper, hoping she can’t hear me, but I know it’s risky. Sleep might not have taken her yet, but I needed to get it off my chest. Her breathing remains steady, so I think I might be in the clear.
I hold my breath for a long moment, finally accepting that she’s fallen asleep in my arms without a tear left in sight.
As a friend, I’d call that a job well done.
As for the benefits part…I’d call myself confused, because I’m starting to believe that my brother was right on all counts.
Chapter thirty-two
Jenna
I heard him, butI did my best to pretend as though I hadn’t.
I pulled all of my focus on my breathing and made sure it remained completely steady, and not at all inconsistent. That would’ve been a giveaway.
The idea of him knowing that I’d heard what he’d secretly said…it was terrifying, and I wasn’t even the one who made the confession.
But if I was being honest with myself, they were blurring for me, too, and it came completely out of left field.
I wasn’t expecting to feel whatever it is I feel for him, and now that it’s hit me, I don’t know how to combat it. Pretending to sleep until I no longer had to fake it felt like the only smart choice.
According to the time on my phone, it’s midafternoon, and I’m woken by the smell of freshly brewed coffee. My head feels like a bowling ball rolling around, crashing against the walls of my skull.
Every single part of me aches, and the only drink I’d had was when I was trying to relax and fall asleep, long before Cole even arrived.
This always happens, though. When the weight of a thousand, ignored feelings come crashing down on me. I should be used to it after twenty-six years, but I still end up feeling the ache in every inch of my body.
My heart, though? She remains ice cold, but I fear she’s beginning to thaw out.
Years ago, it felt like that particular organ had forgotten how to function, forever stumbling to her death every time I was in the presence of Becky Rogers. But now…maybe it’s beginning to realize that just because my mother gave birth to me, doesn’t mean I owe her anything.
I did my best to support her when I finally had the means to do so, but now, physically and emotionally, I don’t think I can handle it anymore.
Sliding on my black, fluffy slippers, I don’t put a bra on under my t-shirt when I walk into my kitchen to find a shirtless Cole working overtime at the stove. “Breakfast?” he asks with a quick look over his shoulder, and it confuses me. Last I checked, I had no groceries in my house at all. “Or is this technically lunch?”
“I could have my first meal of the day at dinner time, and I would still call it breakfast.” I eye him suspiciously as I approach. “So much for not knowing how to cook,” I say, my voice raspy as I make my way to a stool. He turns to face me, placing a pot of coffee onto a heat protection pad on the countertop, a glass filled with ice cubes, a bottle of creamer, caramel drizzle, and a thick, glass straw down onto the table. The only items Ididhave in my kitchen.
An easy guess.Don’t overthink it.
I inhale the smell deeply, my nose hovering over the rim, hoping just the scent alone will cure my emotion-induced hangover.
No immediate luck, but the day is still young.
“I said I don’tliketo cook, not that I don’t know how.” He smiles softly, placing a plate down in front of me with fluffy, buttermilk cupcakes, ice cream and maple syrup drizzled on top.
He knows how I like my coffeeandmy favorite breakfast?
“How did you know this is how I eat my pancakes and how I drink my coffee?” I ask, racking my brain with all the things I told him last night with no memory of mentioning anything likethat.
“I texted Cassandra last night once you’d dozed off, and I woke up to a reply.” He shrugs. “It’s no big deal.” Rounding the corner, he pulls out a stool to sit beside me, no plate or bowl of food set for him. “What are your plans for today?” he asks as I swallow my first mouthful of breakfast goodness.
“Holy shit, these are incredible!” I take another bite, and his tanned cheeks turn a soft shade of pink. “Are you going to eat?” I ask, and he shakes his head.
I’m trying my hardest to ignore the fact that he asked my best friend how I like my coffee and what I like to eat for breakfast, so I could wake up to both, but the thought seems to linger in my head for longer than necessary.
“Tate would kill me if I ate anything that wasn’t chicken and rice right before shooting the creek scene.” He taps his knuckles on the countertop while he watches me eat, and suddenly I’m all too aware of the food that’s entering my body. But I’m even more aware of the fact that he made it for me, and doesn’t seem to care.
He is not your mother; I scold myself internally for comparing the two.
