When I put down the armload of seasonings and cornmeal on the kitchen counter, I feel him staring again. Ignoring his presence, I get out a bowl and butter a pan.
“Kat.”
“Hmm?” I resist the urge to turn around. I know this recipe by heart. It was my grandmother’s. Cornmeal, raisins, cranberries, nuts…
He says my name again, and I glance over my shoulder.
His voice is gruff. “You don’t need to do this. You don’t have to make anything special. I could pick up some dinner so you don’t have to cook.” He groans. “You do too much as it is.”
Why this makes me want to tear up, I’m not sure, but I return to my bowl and start measuring and pouring. It’s hard not to wonder who takes care of Brady when he’s back home. Who makes sure he gets a home-cooked dinner? Who brews his coffee in the morning? Who makes sure he doesn’t work too hard?
I know I sound like some nineteen-fifties woman, but my family is very traditional, and if I’m being honest, I like taking care of Brady. Which is a little shocking. Because I didn’t feel this way with my ex.
But with Brady, every female instinct is dialed up. I want to take care of him. Feed him. Love him. Even if it’s only physical. And even if it has an expiration date.
This should scare me to hell and beyond, but for some reason it doesn’t.
I’m learning a lot about myself here. I used to think I didn’t want children. Ironically, it’s an argument Eric and I had more than once. But now that I’ve been around Mel and Cal and Izzy, I’d be hard pressed to say that again.
I decide to put Brady out of his misery. “I’d be knee deep in masa right now if I were home. I’d be slinging that stuff all over the kitchen forced-labor style while I made two hundred and fifty tamales so every family member could take home a dozen when they left our Thanksgiving table. So trust me when I say it’s no hardship to make dinner for the two of us.”
He’s quiet for a long time, and then finally asks, “So you have a big family?”
“Yup. My mother is the oldest of eight, my father is the oldest of five. I already told you about my sister, who’s obnoxious as hell, and I have too many cousins to count.”
Then he surprises me. “That must be nice.”
I turn back to look at him, to see if he’s joking. He’s not. “Tell me about your family. Is it just you and your parents?”
“My mom has a sister, but she’s in New York. Otherwise, it’s just me and my parents.” He doesn’t have to say the rest—it’s just him and his parents now—but I hear it in his voice.
I bite my lip, trying to think of something to cheer him up. “Want some hot chocolate? I was gonna make some for myself.” I wasn’t, but I know he likes it, and if it helps take his mind off Mel and Cal, then it’s an easy thing to do. Maybe it’s lame, but it’s the first thing I think of.
“Sure. I’d love it. But, Kat, you don’t have to do this. You don’t have to wait on me.”
I turn, and what I see breaks my heart. Because I know he feels alone. It’s etched in his expression and in the slump of his shoulders. I feel it too. Acutely. And because I meant what I said about us being friends, I do what I would with any friend right now.
Wiping my hands on a towel, I tell him, “Get up.”
He stares at me, looking like he doesn’t understand. I repeat the words and he stands hesitantly. And then I band my arms around him in a hug. A second later, he’s hugging me back. We stand there for a minute, and I whisper, “Don’t make more of this than it is, but I kinda like taking care of you. It’s not a big deal, though, okay?”
He doesn’t say anything, just squeezes me tighter before he plants a kiss on the top of my head.
When I step away, I ask, “So marshmallows?”
His responding smile makes me grin too. “Please.”
30
Brady
The smells coming from the kitchen make my stomach growl. I bounce Izzy on my lap and kiss her strawberry-scented hair before I hoist her into my arms. “Let’s go see what Aunt Kat is cooking up, hmm?”
She nods, her beautiful eyes playful. My brother’s eyes, I think sadly.
I stop in the doorway and watch Katherine scurry back and forth across the kitchen, checking the pots and pans on the stove.
“You do realize you’re only feeding two point five people, right?” I ask.
“Point five?” She glances at me over her shoulder. Her hair is tied up, which emphasizes her graceful neck.
Jesus Christ. Since when are necks graceful?
I try to focus on her question. “I believe Little Miss Sunshine here qualifies as the point five.”
Kat chuckles. “I suppose so.” She holds up a spoon of homemade stuffing. “Wanna bite, baby?”
“Uh, yeaaah.” Is it weird that she just called me baby? It doesn’t stop me from charging toward the food.
Kat gives me a deadpan look. “I meant the actual baby.”
“Oh.” My lips twist as I scratch the back of my neck. “That makes sense.”
She barely keeps in a laugh as she holds the spoon to my mouth. “Here, goofball.”