No Kissing Allowed (No Kissing Allowed #1)(41)

I sat down beside him and ran my fingers through his hair, then over his forehead, soothing the tension in his brow. “It’s not whether you should. You do. He’s your father, good or bad, and your caring for him doesn’t make you weak. It makes you strong.”

“You think so?”

“I do.”

We fell into silence then, him staring at the ceiling, me staring at him, before he patted the space beside him and said, “Lie with me.”

“But your dad. Do you want to—”

“Please…just lie with me.”

Doing as he asked, I lay down beside him, nestling my head under his chin, wishing I knew what he was thinking. Wishing he would talk about it. But sometimes we needed to sort out our thoughts in silence, the quiet giving way to understanding in a way words never could.

“I’m here,” I said. He nodded once and then we settled against each other, our eyelids closing somewhere along the way, our bodies tangled together as we drifted into a peaceful sleep.





Chapter Twenty


The sounds of complete and utter chaos startled me awake. I glanced over at the clock on my nightstand and groaned. Seven a.m.

And so it began.

My aunts would arrive soon, bringing with them stress and noise, driving Mom to drink. I needed to get up to help, but instead, I snuggled into Aidan, burying my face in his chest, telling myself I’d get up in five minutes. With any luck, maybe they hadn’t arrived.

Thanksgiving never used to be this stressful. Or maybe that was just childhood ignorance, and it had always been stressful for Mom. She used to cook the full meal, and everyone came over about an hour before to “help,” which really meant to watch her cook while they talked. But then Dad died, and everything in our lives broke a little. That first Thanksgiving was the hardest, and being from a huge family like ours made it even harder. Mom sat in a corner throughout the whole thing, my aunts busily making the Thanksgiving meal. She didn’t cry, but she didn’t speak either, which for my mom was worse than crying. It meant she was too lost to do anything, to talk—to feel. But then the second year came, and the third, then she met Eric, and though a part of me resented her for moving on, the rest of me was just happy to see life in her eyes again.

I had just leaned over to give Aidan a quick kiss before slipping into the shower when a sudden pounding on my bedroom door made me freeze midmotion. Hesitating, I stared at the door. Maybe I could ignore it and they’d just—

Bang, bang, bang, bang, bang.

“Cammie, I know you’re awake, and if you aren’t, you should be. We have an emergency.”

I recognized the deep Southern drawl of Anna Beth, the eldest of my cousins, and had to suppress the urge to roll my eyes. Her idea of an emergency could be anything from a broken nail to a house fire. I opened the door just as her fist rose to pound again. She was dressed in a khaki corduroy skirt and button-down blouse, with simple brown ballet flats. I ran a mental check of my pajamas—an old Rolling Stones T-shirt that was so big it hung off one shoulder and bright pink flannel pants. Awesome.

“What can I do for you, Anna Beth?”

Her eyes narrowed, then drifted beyond me to my bed, her lips curved into a catlike grin. “I see I’m interrupting something. I can just tell your mama that you’re busy. She was needing you downstairs, but clearly—”

“It’s fine, I just need to take a quick shower, and I’ll—”

Anna Beth cleared her throat and smiled sweetly. “If you had gotten up and dressed like every other adult in this house, you would already be showered. As it sits, she asked for you to come downstairs. Now.”

I gritted my teeth together to keep from spitting out a sarcastic response. Anna Beth might not be my favorite cousin, but she was family, and there was a certain protocol for dealing with family. Even the annoying ones who made you want to double-check the bloodline to ensure you were indeed related. “Fine,” I said with a sigh. “Lead the way.”

I followed Anna Beth down the stairs and into the kitchen, where sure enough, there was an emergency. It looked like flour had waged war on our kitchen, on the counters, on the walls, everywhere. Mom’s hands shook as she peered around at the mess.

“Cammie…” Her voice rattled.

“It’s all right, Mom. I’ve got it.” My eyes scanned around for a broom and dustpan and landed on a tiny boy in the corner, so covered in flour I couldn’t make out which one of my cousins he belonged to. “It’s all right,” I repeated to him this time. “Go find your mom and get cleaned up, okay?”

He nodded and took off like I’d just freed him from jail, and I went to work cleaning up the flour blizzard that had struck our kitchen.

“How am I am going to make the cobbler without flour?” Mom asked, her hands on her hips.

“I’ll go to the store. No big deal.”

Her eyes watered. “See, this is why I need you home. You fix things. No one around here knows how to fix anything.”

I laughed. “Mom. I’m just cleaning up. It’s no big deal.”

“It’s a huge deal. If you weren’t here, we’d all be staring at this mess, wringing our hands, wondering what to do.”

“It’s fine, really. I almost have this cleaned up, then you can go back to cooking, and I’ll head to the store. All right?”