Kellan glares at my friend, no doubt remembering the antagonism between them yesterday during the worlds’ most awkward Family Secrets Reveal Day.
“Yeah, um,” I move a hand between them. “Will, this is Kellan. Kellan, this is Will. You guys didn’t get to formally meet yesterday.”
At Kellan’s name, Will’s eyebrows shoot up. He knows how devastated I am with what happened with Jonah. I can see the question in his eyes, and how he wonders if I’m sliding back into bad habits.
And it kind of hurts, coming from him of all people.
But Will sticks his hand out, because he’s that kind of guy. I hold my breath, waiting to see if Kellan will reciprocate in kind, and it takes a good three seconds, but he finally does. And I let the breath go, relieved that I’m not going to have to referee a fight between these two today.
“You were saying?” I prompt Will as he pours himself a cup of coffee. Nell comes trotting into the kitchen; it warms my heart to watch Kellan automatically bend down and pet her satiny head.
“Right. I need you to call Frieda when you have a moment and tell her to take her head out of her ass. Obviously you haven’t been checking your messages this morning. She’s called me a good five times, the last two asking where you are and whether or not I’ve lost you in Glasgow already.”
My eyes slide over to where Kellan is. He’s sipping his coffee, watching us curiously, which is admittedly a much better turn of events than searing anger and disappointment. “Frieda is a friend I used to work with in Alaska.”
This surprises him. “You had a job?”
His incredulity makes me do one of those breathy exhales of a laugh. Talk about a surreal situation. “Yes, Kellan. How do you think I afforded to buy food? Pay rent?”
Well, okay. I don’t quite tell him everything, because I’m holding back that I afforded a lot of things thanks to the money I stole from him and his brother.
Some of the old easiness between us resurfaces, though. “Just what kind of job did you have?”
“She was a waitress,” Will supplies. “With a vicious cleaning fetish. We had the cleanest diner in all of Anchorage.”
My cheeks burn. Kellan laughs, though—it’s quiet and small, but it’s a laugh. “I never pictured in my wildest dreams that you would ever be a waitress, let alone one with a cleaning fetish.”
My lips tug up at the corners. “Why am I calling Frieda, Will?”
He pulls a box of crackers out of the cupboard. “Paul proposed.”
“Shut. UP.” My cup slams onto the counter.
“I know this will come as a shock, but Frieda is outraged. I’m tired of her bloody rants. If I have to listen to them one more time, I’ll be doing more than telling her to bugger off.” Will grabs a jar of Marmite out of the fridge; he’d found a small grocery store last night that actually carried it. “It’s your turn.”
“Why isn’t Ginny dealing with the fallout?”
He points his knife at me. “Our dearest Gin has already planned out the entire wedding. Frieda has disavowed her as a traitor. She somehow thinks you or I will talk sense into Paul. I’ll be honest, I sent Paul a text and told him to insist he was joking and find a nice girl who’ll appreciate him, but you know Paul. Said he sees loads in her the rest of us are blind to or whatever.”
I pass him a plate. “Turn off your phone. It’s an easy solution.”
And . . . he looks so sad. Lost. Which means only one thing. I snatch the plate back. “Will—”
Now he feigns innocence. “Give me back my plate. Do you want me to starve?”
“Of course not. It’s just—”
Will rips the plate out of my fingers and glances at Kellan, who is not hiding his amused interest in this conversation. “This is neither the time nor place for such a conversation. Don’t you have a mea culpa to commence with?”
I’m a dog with a bone. “Will—”
“Chloe,” he mimics in falsetto.
We have a stare-off for a good five seconds before I relent. Finally, “I refuse to apologize for caring.”
“I don’t expect you to.” He nods toward Kellan. “It was good to finally make your proper acquaintance. And now, I’m off to go watch the hockey game I taped, because at least that will be normalcy in this madhouse of family horrors.”
When he’s gone, Kellan asks, “What was that about?”
“It’s a long story.” I rub the spot between my eyes, leaning a hip against the counter and trying desperately not to remember in vivid detail us being in another kitchen during another lifetime. “I’m sorry, Kellan. I really am.”
He sighs, setting his coffee cup down.
I tell him what I told Jonah—about how I hated hurting them, how I didn’t know if I could live with it, about the weight of work, about being sick all the time. And then I tell him I told Jonah about the two of us and what we did behind Jonah’s back.
“He knew,” is what Kellan finally says.