Shed hunting.
It’s a hobby of mine.
I walk outside my bedroom door, and smell…
Is that pancakes? Breakfast food? Maple syrup? Coffee?
Is she cooking? For me?For us?
Swinging each stiff arm into my sweater, I walk down the hallway, my mouth salivating when I find a kitchen I don’t recognize. It looks like Santa Claus retched everywhere. There are shades of bright classic red, emerald green, pearl white, and pops of silver-blue. Standing before the stove, Coraline flips a pancake with a spatula and sets another atop a pile of pancakes on the countertop, wearing a weightless smile. I haven’t seen her this cheery since I found her.
My heart seizes in my chest.
These decorations shouldn’t be here. I shouldn’t be looking at them like I want to burn my whole house down. I haven’t seen them in decades because they’ve been stored in the basement, untouched,for a reason.
“Good morning, Gavin. Want some pancakes?” she asks, swiping her forehead.
I don’t know how to feel.
Confusion is the first thing to slither into my mind.
Christmas wreaths cover every inch above the wooden cabinets, their ivory lights twinkling slowly—nutcrackers in every corner. The thumping in my chest switches to my ears. Opening and closing my mouth, I can’t form a single word. My palms smooth over my shirt across my abdomen, dismantling the wrinkles.
“What the hell is this?” I snap.
Coraline freezes. My cold tone disintegrates the warmth she oozes with every flick of her wrist as she cooks. Her dark brows knit together as she assesses me, almost afraid to make a move, or I’ll pounce on her like a hungry predator ready to execute his prey.
“Making you breakfast?” she squeaks innocently. She slowly turns the gas dial until the stove fire is out. “I made pancakes and grilled bacon I found in the fridge. There’s coffee still fresh and hot in the pot. Don’t worry, I didn’t put any creamer in it because I noticed you don’t like it.” She grabs a plate from a cabinet above her head. “More hazelnut for me.” Tiptoeing, her fingers hook two glass plates. I drink her in from the side as perspiration breaks out across my chest. Her thick curls are more voluminous, and some stick to her cheek as she waltzes around the kitchen, moving back and forth from the stove and island. It’s tied up in a bun with little strands of hair poking out. She’s wearing my mother’s apron and using my dad’s signature butter knife we made together to top the pancakes with butter—cooking surrounded by my parents’ decorations.
It’s too much.
This is all too much at once.
Something inside of me snaps in half.
“Stop.” My jaw ticks.
Her beautiful, cheery, weightless smile disappears, and I already feel like an ass. But I’ve never held back.
“What? Why?” she asks, holding a plate in one hand and aknife in the other. The syrup and butter pool around the pancakes’ crispy edges as she keeps them aloft.
“Just stop. Stop moving. Stop cooking. Stop.”
“Gavin, is everything okay?”
“You went into the basement again?” I accuse her roughly. My emotions are overflowing, beyond my control, intercepting everything. I’m used to being in control here in the cabin. And I’m losing it.
“Yes, I did.” She sets the plates down on the island and pats her thighs. “I thought just because Christmas is over, it doesn’t mean we can’t pretend, right?” That smile is back, but it’s forced. The ivory lights glimmer in her eyes. “I slept through the holiday when you pulled me out of the accident.” She sucks in a breath. “Cooking and cleaning for you is the least I can do, and Merelyn mentioned you haven’t touched those boxes in years, so I thought?—”
“You thought what?” I bark and take a step toward the kitchen counter as she tracks my face, raking up and down vehemently. She visibly shrinks into place. I feel bad, but it’s not enough to change the tone. I dart my gaze toward the knife in her hands, and my stomach immediately knots, seeing it again. I softly take it out of her still hands and place it into the sink.
There are so many reasons for the way I’m reacting. So many reasons and stories behind every single thing in this cabin. All of this stays in the basement for a reason because it feels like a portal into the darkness I’ve kept shut for a long time. Giving her my back, I palm the sink and try to breathe before I crash.
“Gavin. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean any harm. I just know that it must be lonely up here for you. I’m stuck here for some time, and I’m trying to help out as much as I can,” she murmurs.
I turn around and find her slipping off the apron and hooking it on the pantry door.
“I’m not fucking lonely. I’m not someone to fix,” I hiss. “Don’t go into the basement. Don’t touch my things. Don’t make me coffee. Don’t cook for me, don’t do anything,” I quip coldly.
