The Resurrection of Wildflowers (Wildflower #2)(12)

“Are you okay?”

I press my lips into a flat smile. “Splendid. It’s just a bit chilly.”

He gives me a funny look because it’s anything but cold in the house. My mom is cold almost all the time these days and doesn’t want the AC on.

“Dinner smells amazing. Did you make it?”

I turn to him, raising a brow. “Obviously. Ow. You kicked me.”

My mom blinks back innocently. “I did no such thing.”

Thayer’s eyes flicker back and forth between us in amusement. “I really appreciate you inviting me over, Allison.”

“I’ve told you—” she coughs and instantly my hand holding my fork lowers, “—call me Allie.”

“Allie,” he repeats. “Right, sorry.”

“Are you all right?” I ask her.

I know Georgia mentioned with our mom’s immune system being non-existent at the moment that she’d be more susceptible to illnesses.

“I’m fine. My throat’s just a tad ticklish tonight.”

I eye her skeptically. Even Thayer looks worried.

It hits me, in moments like this, that she’s dying.

That no matter what I do, or how hard she continues to fight, this is her final battle and there is no happy outcome.

It’s one thing to know something, it’s another to witness it.

“Do you want to go lay down?”

She pushes the food around her plate. “I’m fine.”

“Mom, if you’d feel better laying down—”

She looks between the two of us across from her. “Maybe that would be a good idea.”

I stand up to help, but Thayer urges me back down. “I’ll help her,” he says in a hushed tone.

Before I can protest, he’s moving around the table and helping my mom up and into the family room.

I stay seated, staring at my plate so she can’t see the tears pooling in my eyes.

Thayer returns, his chair squeaking as it slides back on the linoleum floor.

“You don’t have to stay,” I mutter, not looking at him.

“I’m hungry,” is his gruff reply. “I’m not about to walk away from a home-cooked meal. I’m too tired and lazy to cook most days and end up ordering takeout.”

My head whips in his direction, appraising the lean body beneath his clothes. “Doesn’t look like you eat unhealthy.”

His brow arches, lips twitching when he fights a smile. “Checking me out?”

“Don’t flatter yourself.”

He chuckles, taking a bite of mashed potatoes. “You made these from scratch.”

It’s not a question, but I answer anyway. “Yes.” I force myself to eat a bite, then another.

“Would you happen to know anything about cupcakes showing up at my door a few days ago?” He asks it in a way like he already knows the answer, so there’s no point in lying.

“I made them with my mom and she asked me to drop some off. That’s all.”

Aka: Don’t read into it.

He nods, rubbing his lips together. “Salem, I—”

“Not right now.” My words are biting, cutting, but I can’t do this right now. Not with my dying mother in the next room. She’s my focus right now. Not Thayer. He can’t be.

“We need to talk.”

We need to talk about way more than he thinks we do.

I mentally start building a wall around my heart. It’s the only way I can operate around Thayer. I can’t—won’t—let him get to me so easily. Not this time.

“Do you remember?” I snap at him, my tone icy. “Do you remember the last time I saw you? What you said to me?”

His forehead wrinkles and he looks confused. “I—I’m not sure.”

“You told me you hated me.” He pales, horror stricken. “That was the least of what was said, if I’m being honest. And listen, you were drunk and grieving, but I survived a different kind of abuse before and I wasn’t going to let you hurt me with words.”

“Salem—” His Adam’s apple bobs. “I didn’t … fuck, I can’t believe I said that to you.” He shakes his head.

“I know we need to talk,” I continue like he didn’t say anything at all. “But I can’t do it right now. Not after just seeing you for the first time in so long.” Pushing my plate away, I stand without looking at him. “I’m not so hungry anymore. Lock up behind you.”

I walk out of the kitchen, past my sleeping mom, and upstairs. I lock my bedroom door behind me and hastily close the blinds. Doing everything I can to block out the hateful words he lobbed my way that night.

You’re the reason he’s dead.

I was distracted thinking about you and he’s gone. You did this. It’s your fault.

I hate you. Get out.

I wish I’d never met you.

That last one was a massive blow to my heart. The others hurt, God did they hurt, but I knew they were the words of a broken father.

Curling up on my bed, I fall asleep.

In the morning, all the leftovers are put away and the kitchen is spotless.

There’s a note left on the counter.

I’m sorry.—T