“Looks just like Cage’s apartment,” she observes, cradling Avery against her chest.
I step into the kitchen. Placing the large bag on the counter, I reach inside to start unloading it. There are plastic containers and Ziploc bags stuffed full of more food than I could possibly eat in a week.
“Let me help you,” Anna says before scanning the room. “Mind if I put Avery on your bed?”
My mind races, wondering how messy my room is. I never make my bed and I’m prone to throw my clothes on the floor until laundry day, but I relax when I realize I actually did laundry today.
“Sure,” I reply.
Anna moves to my room, which is off the living area, and pokes her head in. “She’s not quite to the rolling-over stage yet, but you have plenty of pillows I can place around her,” she observes.
“More on the couch if you need them,” I say, gesturing to them. “They sort of came with the furnishings.”
Anna laughs. “I know. Cage has the same ones.”
I unload the food while Anna settles Avery onto my bed, and I wonder exactly how close Anna and Cage are. They seem to be only in the friend zone, but it makes me wonder if that’s only because Anna’s a recent widow? Maybe Cage wants more… and he’s just biding his time until she’s ready.
But that doesn’t make sense, not when he seems to be so into that woman—Jaime—we’d met last night.
Or maybe Cage is just a player who runs through women.
I have to admit that the thought of him playing Anna in any way doesn’t sit right with me. While I owe the man the world for being part of my rescue team, I actually think I would cheerfully kill him if he hurt Anna.
I know this deep-seated urge to protect her comes from my guilt over not protecting her husband, as if it’s my life’s duty now to watch over her. Maybe that will go away in time… and maybe it won’t. I just know that, in this moment, Anna’s health, safety, and happiness seem crucially important to me.
I glance into my bedroom to see Avery on her back, sound asleep with pillows bordered all around her. Anna sits on the edge of the bed, watching her daughter with a dreamy smile. It’s not something I’d ever want to interrupt, so I pull out two plates and start loading them, keeping the portions on hers substantially smaller than mine.
I nuke mine in the microwave for a minute, then Anna’s. By the time I’m pulling hers out, she comes out of the bedroom, casting one last look at her daughter.
“I wonder how many hours of your life you have spent watching her sleep since she was born,” I say with a smile as I carry the plates to the small dining table separating the kitchen and living area.
Anna laughs as she sits. I set a plate in front of her, putting mine at the adjacent space at the table. I head back into the kitchen, grabbing silverware and bottled waters from the fridge. At the last minute, I duck to nab an entire roll of paper towels, tucking it under my arm.
She regales me with tales about Thanksgiving holiday at her house as we eat—how her great-uncle Richard got too drunk on peppermint schnapps, her cousin Tim showed up stoned but no one knew it but her, and how her mom accidentally used a bowl to serve the corn in that had soap in it so everyone was practically gagging and blowing bubbles.
“They sound hilarious,” I observe, laughing at yet another story.
“They are,” she replies, her smile sliding a little. “But in a dysfunctional way.”
“Are you close to them?” I ask. “I mean, you clearly enjoy spending time with and love them—”
“But do I spill my life’s secrets to them?” she finishes. “Because we both know you can love someone in your family, but not actually be close to them.”
I nod.
Anna shrugs. “I used to be really close to my mom while growing up, particularly after my dad died. She and I really bonded after that.”
“But then…” I prompt, fully aware there’s more from the way she left her words hanging.
Anna shrugs. “But then life happened. When she remarried, she had to split her attention between me and my stepdad.”
“Is he nice?” I ask.
“Sure,” she replies, again with a shrug. “He loves my mom. Cares for me, too, no doubt. But maybe a part of me resents him because he took a part of my mom away from me.”
“I can understand that,” I commiserate.
“Yeah, but it’s not very mature of me to think that way, so I accepted the new boundaries in our relationship. To answer your question, I guess I’m tight with my mom, but we’re not as close as we once were. I haven’t really talked to her about Jimmy dying all that much, so that should tell you something.”