The Resurrection of Wildflowers (Wildflower #2)(11)

“I was being neighborly, Salem. He’s a nice man.”

My shoulders stiffen and I turn away, washing my hands in the sink. “Do you like him?”

She snorts a laugh. “I’m dying, Salem. I don’t have time to like anyone in the way you’re implying. But I do like him as a person.”

“Hmm,” I hum.

There’s a knock on the side door at 4:59 and I turn the lock, letting him in. I can’t help myself when my eyes rake over him. His hair is freshly washed, still damp from a shower. I greedily take in the light stubble on his jaw, up close and personal this time. His brown eyes are warm chocolate that I want to melt in. He even smells of cologne, like he put in a little extra effort tonight.

No! Stop it! You can’t let this man make you all weak in the knees again! He’s done enough damage.

But I can’t help it.

I’m looking at him with new eyes, older eyes. I’m no longer that freshly pregnant nineteen-year-old who was scared out of her mind. Looking back, I know I made the decision I thought I had to. Was it the best choice? In hindsight, probably not, but life is a series of choices and at the time you don’t always know whether it’s good or bad. You just do what you can with the information you have.

Back then, I was terrified to be a mom, but there was never a question in my mind about keeping the baby.

But Thayer was spiraling after losing Forrest, understandable yes, but I couldn’t pull him out of that—not on my own. He had to do it, and I knew it. But I had to make sure my baby was going to be safe and taken care of, so I did that the best way I could, and that meant giving Thayer space.

I thought … I thought he’d find me.

Call me.

Text me.

Send a fucking carrier pigeon for God’s sake, but he never did, and I felt used and thrown away.

“Is something on my face?”

“Oh!” I jump away, knocking my hip into the corner of the counter. “Ow!”

“Careful.” He grips my wrist, steadying me. Electricity shoots up my arm at his touch.

“I’m okay.” I pull gently from his grasp, not wanting to betray my true feelings.

He lets me go and holds up a bottle of wine I didn’t know he was holding. “I wasn’t sure what we were having, but I didn’t want to come with nothing.”

“Oh, how sweet.” My mom smiles. “Thank you, Thayer. Isn’t that nice, Salem?”

“So nice,” I mimic woodenly, turning away. “Let me grab glasses,” I mutter, distracted.

If I didn’t know better, I would swear my mom is trying to play matchmaker with Mr. Broody. I wonder what she’d say if she knew he broke my heart or that he’s Seda’s father. I wonder, since they’re friends, if he knows I have a child. I’m guessing not or I think he would’ve brought it up when he mentioned my marriage.

I add wine glasses to the table while Thayer chats with my mom. I make her a plate and set it in front of her.

“You can get your own plate,” I tell Thayer.

“Salem!” My mom scolds.

My cheeks flush. “I just meant he can pick and choose what he wants.”

Turning my back on them, I grab my plate and start piling food onto it. I don’t pay attention to what I’m doing and it’s only when Thayer says, “I don’t think chicken goes on top of mashed potatoes,” his long finger pointing at the gravy I made and should have been spooning on instead, that I jolt back to reality.

I close my eyes, mortified. It has to be obvious to him, that even after all this time I’m still affected by him. Still hopelessly enamored for God knows why.

He broke your heart!

He broke it, and yet, that stupid organ races in my chest at an accelerated rate for him.

I hate him.

I hate myself.

I hate this.

That he’s here, in my mom’s kitchen. That she’s dying. That Seda is in Boston.

I just—

“Here, let me help you.” He takes my plate from me, raking the roasted chicken off my potatoes and fixing my plate.

“Maybe I wanted my chicken on my potatoes,” I grumble.

He arches a brow. “Do you?”

“Well, no.”

He doesn’t wait for me to say anything further. He finishes my plate, carrying it to the table. He places it on the spot in front of my mom. Pulling out the chair, he turns to me with a tilt of his head. “Are you going to sit down?”

“Um, yeah.”

I really hate that he has me so disoriented. It’s like I can’t tell up from down or left from right.

Sitting down, he scoots my chair in and I let out a tiny squeak of surprise at the gesture.

Does he not see how weird all of this is?

My mom looks down at her plate, but I don’t miss the flash of a smile.

“What are you smiling about?”

“Nothing.”

“Liar,” I grumble.

She mock-gasps, and it turns into a cough, which instantly has me on alert. Luckily, it stops before I become too worried.

“You can’t call a dying woman a liar.”

“Why not?” I’m aware Thayer can overhear our entire conversation, but I don’t care. “If the shoe fits…”

She cracks a smile. Thayer pulls out the chair at my side, his arm brushing against mine as he sits down. My treacherous body shivers—visibly so.