Neat (Becker Brothers, #2)(51)

She didn’t hear me come in at first — not that I was surprised, with the level the music was blasting — and she bopped across the kitchen, swaying her hips and singing along on her way from checking whatever was baking in the oven to revisiting the cutting board where a parade of vegetables were in the middle of being diced.

I would have given anything in that moment to see my Dad sneak in behind her, twirling her out before pulling her back into him and kissing her nose the way he’d always do. I’d have given anything to hear her laugh, see the crinkle of her nose as she shoved him off playfully, only to watch him go back to the room where my brothers and I were, all the love in the world in those eyes of hers.

I swallowed past the knot in my throat, and I took his place as best I could. I stepped into the kitchen, slipping one of Dad’s old aprons over my head and tying it behind my waist as I sang along with Mom. She smiled when she saw me, handing me the knife so I could take over where she was dicing and she moved to the bowl she was mixing the batter for dessert in.

“This is the best album in the world,” she said, still bopping along to the song. She pointed a whisk at me. “And if anyone says otherwise, you tell them they’ll have to fight your mama.”

I chuckled, but didn’t argue. The Rumors album was definitely one of the best albums in my mind, too.

For the rest of the song, we worked side by side just singing and swaying to the music. When it faded out, Mom crossed to the stereo in the living room and turned it down enough for us to talk over it. She gave me a knowing smile when she was back beside me in the kitchen, but then her eyes fell back to the task at hand.

“So,” she said. “What’s going on, Logan Daniel?”

I shrugged. “Nothing. Can’t a son help his mom in the kitchen?”

Mama chuckled. “Yes, he certainly can. But, a mom can also know when her son has something on his mind.” She lifted a brow in my direction, but kept right on working, scraping the batter she’d mixed into a small pan. I realized then that she was making her famous double chocolate brownies, and when she handed me the whisk to lick the excess batter off like I’d used to as a kid, my chest ached for those simpler days.

I took the whisk, running my tongue over the bottom where the batter was about to drip. “You’re too smart for your own good, woman.”

“You sound like your father.” She chuckled, squeezing some caramel over the top of the batter that she’d weave in with a toothpick. “Now, talk to your Mama.”

I licked one whole side of the whisk, hoping the time it’d take me to eat it and lick the excess chocolate from my lips would give me the chance to find the right words.

“There’s a girl,” I settled on, and as soon as the words were out of my mouth, there was a smile curling on Mom’s.

“Ah,” she said, eyes on the toothpick she was dragging over the brownie batter, creating swirls of chocolate and caramel. “As there always is.”

“She’s…” I paused, licking the whisk again as I tried to figure out the right way to put it. “She’s unlike any woman I’ve ever known, Mom. She has a mind of her own and thinks for herself, instead of falling into the town gossip or doing what everyone else does. And she’s creative, and talented, and smart…” I smiled. “And funny. She’s quick on her feet, and she doesn’t take shit from anyone — least of all me. I don’t know, I guess hanging out with her has just been… refreshing, if that makes sense.”

“It does,” Mom said, nodding with that same smile on her face. “You know, you’re a lot like your father, in the sense that you never were entertained by the ordinary. You always craved the extraordinary, even as a boy. You didn’t want the same toys or video games that your brothers wanted. You wanted books, and Legos, and puzzles that challenged you.” She chuckled. “If you ever fell for a run-of-the-mill girl, I’d probably croak from surprise.”

“Mom,” I said, frowning. “Don’t even joke about that.”

She waved me off. “Oh, stop it. You know what I meant.” She checked the casserole in the oven, but apparently decided it wasn’t done yet. She closed the door again, leaning her hip against it and folding her arms. “Are you and this girl dating, or are you just… what do the kids call it now? Hooking up?”

Mom made air quotes around that last part, and I barked out a laugh, shaking my head.

“We’re not hooking up,” I lied, because for all intents and purposes, that was probably the best way to describe what had happened between us last night. Still, it felt like more… even if we didn’t have a title, or even a conversation about what had happened yet. “But, we’re not dating either.”

“So what are you?”

I sighed. “I guess that’s part of the problem, isn’t it?” I cleaned what was left of the batter on the whisk, dropping it into the sink before I turned to face Mom again, my hands braced behind me on the counter. “I think right now, we’re friends.”

“But you want to be more.”

My stomach soured, because it was the first time I’d admitted it — to myself or otherwise.

I nodded.

Mom smiled, looking thoughtful for a long moment before she spoke. “Well, I think it’s time you had a conversation with this girl. You know, your father and I always said that the reason our relationship worked as well as it did was because we were best friends first, and lovers second. We could come to each other with anything — even when it was uncomfortable to talk about. The other one was always there to listen, to understand — no matter what.” Mom shrugged. “Maybe being honest with this girl about how you’re feeling will be a test of sorts, to see if you have communication established, if you can go to her and make her feel comfortable to do the same with you.”