Ryder hops off the stool and comes around the counter. He rummages around the cabinets, procuring a skillet. He places it on the stove and then retrieves his pancake mix.
“Here,” he says, handing me the yellow container. “I’d just make it myself, but Dad thinks I’m too young to operate the stove without an adult.”
I look at the mix and sigh. Guess we’re making pancakes.
“You can throw a big punch, but I think your dad is right about the stove,” I say. “Better leave that to the adults for a while.”
“But what could happen? I do a good job at dinner every night.”
I grab a bowl from beneath the counter. As I stand, a chill rushes through my body.
My eyes squeeze closed as a flurry of memories flashes through my mind.
A kitchen decorated with orange and yellow mushrooms. A white towel with black lines. Reaching for the handle and—my eyes pop open.
I look at my right forearm. The scar is long gone, but I remember it being there. From the grease.
A shiver shimmies down the length of my body, and I wonder if this is a natural reaction to shrug off bad memories.
“You do a good job at dinner,” I say before clearing my throat. “But you could accidentally knock something off and hurt yourself.” I take a deep breath. “I did that when I was a little kid.”
“You did?”
I nod.
A wash of emotions fills me up.
The stale cigarette smoke. Powdered drinks with no sugar and the tartness of it on my tongue. The chipped paint on the windowsills as I stare out the window, waiting for Hollis to come home.
A pang of sadness hits me in the chest, and I place a hand over my heart.
Go away.
“Where was your mom at?” he asks.
Who the hell knows?
I turn toward Ryder to change the subject but stop when I see the look in his eye. It’s one I know well, one that few can relate to. And although I don’t want to talk about my birth mother at all—I’ve blocked much of it out—it could help this little boy.
His smile wobbles.
Dammit.
I force a swallow. “Well, actually, my mom was standing right there.”
“And you still got hurt?”
I scan the instructions and add the correct amount of mix and water to the bowl. Strangely, the routine of making pancakes is comforting.
“My mom …” How do I do this? My heart starts to pound. How do I tell him my mother was an addict? “My mom was sick. And sometimes she didn’t take very good care of me.”
I look at Ryder over my shoulder. He’s watching me with a completely blank face.
“Like my mom?” he asks.
His little voice is softer and sounds so much more like a seven-year-old than he does when he’s talking Mustangs or right crosses. It breaks my heart.
“I don’t really know what happened to your mom,” I say gently, trying to tread carefully with Ryder. Nate told me what happened to her, but I don’t know what Ryder knows, and I’m not about to hurt him.
“She was sick. That’s what my daddy tells me. She was sick and went to heaven, and I’ll see her there.”
I blink back the tears that pool in the corners of my eyes. Oh, you poor, sweet boy.
“My mom was sick too. But I didn’t have a daddy like you do. Mine was …” In prison. “Gone. So I was adopted by a new family. Do you know what that means?”
He nods slowly, his bottom lip trembling. “So if something happens to my daddy someday, I’ll have to be adopted by a new family too?”
Shit.
“No,” I say, walking to him. I have no idea what to do. What do you do with a crying kid? I stick my arm out, and he falls into my side, wrapping his arms around me. “I don’t want to be adopted.”
I pull him close and hug him tighter than I think I’ve ever hugged anyone in my life. It’s as though if I can hug him tight enough, I can put him back together.
“You have all kinds of people who love you,” I say softly. “You have your uncle Dominic, right? And your aunt.” With the baking name.
“Camilla Vanilla.”
“Yes. Camilla Vanilla.” I swallow the lump in my throat. “But you don’t even need to be thinking about things like this, buddy.”
He pulls away and looks up at me. His big brown eyes are watery. “I do worry sometimes that something will happen to my dad. I don’t have a mom. I only have a dad.”
“But you have a great dad. He loves you so much, and I know he’s extra safe when he’s not here because he wants to come home and see you.”
“He does?”
I smile at him. “He does.” I ruffle his hair. “And that’s the difference between your dad and my dad. My dad wasn’t a very nice person. But your dad is a very, very good man and wants you to be happy. You just make sure you’re always safe and good because your daddy only has one little boy.”