Page 38 of Cross Checked
There were answers to that question that lived in dark corners of me. Yes. No. Not where people can see. Not anymore. Not all the way.
But none of those belonged in my kitchen at eleven-thirty on a Sunday morning with coffee cooling on the counter and Cade Mercer watching me like he might understand every answer I refused to give.
So, I smiled. “Only when someone insults Detroit sports.”
His eyes held mine long enough to tell me he knew I had dodged.
Then he let me.
“Good thing I’m respectful,” he said.
“You hate my tank.”
“That was before I understood the stakes.”
“Growth.”
“See? You’re already making me better.”
I rolled my eyes, but the smile slipped out anyway. “This is not a rehabilitation program.”
“Shame.”
I cut the potatoes in half and slid them into the pan while Cade leaned beside me, sprinkling seasoning when I told him to and stealing pieces of cronut between tasks like a man who had no fear of contaminating barbecue prep with pastry glaze. The apartment filled with the small domestic sounds of running water, foil crinkling, cabinets opening, and Cade asking questions that should not have felt intimate but did because he asked like he wanted the answers.
“What does your dad do when he’s not burning meat?”
“Fire Chief. Retired from full-time now, but he still works with the department and pretends he isn’t emotionally dependent on his scanner.”
“Your mom?”
The knife paused for one breath before I kept cutting. “She died.”
Cade went still beside me.
I did not look at him, because sympathy was always harder when it had a face.
“I’m sorry,” he said, and there was no performance in it. No awkward rush to fix the air. Just the words, low and steady.
“Thanks.” I nudged another potato into the pan. “Sunday dinners got bigger after. I think Dad was afraid if the house got quiet, we’d all hear how much we missed her.”
Cade was quiet, but not empty quiet. Listening quiet.
I forced brightness back into my voice before the grief could drag the scene somewhere neither of us was ready to go. “So now we cope through carbs, shouting, and my dad’s commitment to pretending blackened chicken means burnt.”
“Sounds like love with volume.”
I looked over at him, and his mouth softened.
“Your words,” he said.
Something stupid happened to my chest.
I looked away first. “Yeah. Something like that.”
He glanced toward the living room, where my tote bag sat half-packed beside the statue I have been making since I was fourteen. It’s not pretty, just an old cabinet door from my dads with about a zillion marbles hot glued to each other in various colors and sizes. All the nevers I have had without my mom.
Cade’s gaze fixed on it. “Is that a marble statue?”
