Page 140 of The Next Lie

Finally, he says, “Does this make you happy?”

The simplicity of it knocks something loose in me.

I expected judgment. A warning. A lecture about danger, control, men who want too much. I expected him to reach for the old authority and tell me this is reckless.

He doesn’t do any of that.

I look down at my coffee.

“I don’t know if happy is the word. It’s hard to be happy right now when all this other stuff is hanging over me.”

Cal nods slowly. “Fair enough.”

“But I chose it,” I say. “I’m choosing them.”

His eyes stay on my face. “All of it?”

Heat creeps up my neck. “I’m not discussing logistics with you.”

Shiloh makes a strangled sound. Nash looks amused. Ever doesn’t do either, because Ever has the survival instincts of a man who would like to keep all his teeth in his head.

Cal turns back to the stove. “Good. Because if anyone says logistics again, they’re eating breakfast in the yard.”

“Thank God,” I mutter.

He flips the pancakes. “I don’t have to understand everything today. I just have to know you’re not being pushed or coerced or manipulated.”

“I’m not.”

“Managed?”

I glance at Nash. He meets my look without apology.

“Well, there was some attempt at that,” I say. “It did not go well.”

Cal snorts.

Shiloh beams. “She is resistant to governance.”

“I noticed that around age three,” Cal says.

The room eases. The pancakes help. They are perfect, which annoys me. Golden edges, blueberries bursting in the middle, butter melting over the stack. Cal puts a plate in front of me without asking how many I want. Three pancakes. Extra blueberries. Light syrup because I hate when they get soggy.

My throat tightens again. I stab the top pancake with my fork before my face can do anything embarrassing.

“Thanks.”

He nods and sits across from me with his own plate.

For a while, we eat. Shiloh talks enough for everyone, mostly about a restaurant in the Quarter that once refused him service until the owner realized he owned the building. Ever drinks coffee and watches the windows. Nash answers one text and gets glared at by all of us until he turns the phone over again.

It is almost normal.

Then Cal says, “What did you and Delia have words over last night?”

My fork stops halfway to my mouth. The kitchen changes. The shift isn’t loud. The air simply tightens around the subject and waits to see who bleeds first.

I put the bite in my mouth because I refuse to let a perfectly good pancake die for Delia. It tastes like childhood, which is rude under the circumstances.