Think, January, think . . .
I rush to the bulletin board at the back of the room. Pete once mentioned a list of seasonal volunteers with their phone numbers. Surely his is on there, as well. I find the faded paper behind a church flyer and nearly rip it from the wall. My eyes scan every line searching for Pete’s, but a different name pops from the page.
Dillon and Rebecca Kyle. The number is wrong, and the name next to his feels all wrong too, but it’s enough to ease some of the rising hysteria.
I scroll my contact list and dial his cell. Please pick up. Please.
He answers immediately, his voice thick with sleep. “You okay?”
“Do you know where the pantry key is?” I say faster than a normal person should speak.
“Slow down.” The phone jostles and crackles as if he’s moving. “What key? What pantry?”
I don’t know why, but something about his voice makes me sink into a nearby chair, tears I didn’t even know I was fighting now blurring my vision. “At the breakfast the church serves. I’m supposed to make muffins, and everything is locked inside the pantry.”
Dillon’s voice comes back smooth and slow. “January, take a deep breath, okay?”
“Okkaay.” I do as he says, already feeling ten times more in control.
“Go to the refrigerators and open the door farthest to the right.”
I follow his instructions and open the door. A cold blast of air hits my cheek. “It’s open.”
“Up on the right, inside the butter tray, there should be a key.”
I reach up and sure enough my fingers hit metal. The relief is almost enough to make the tears spill over. “I got it. Thank you.”
“Are you there by yourself?”
I shut the refrigerator and walk to the pantry. The key slides in easily. “Yes, but Pete should be here soon. At least I hope so. Nora said she texted him the situation.” My breath is steady now, and my heart calms further when I see all the supplies I need.
“I’m on my way.”
“Dillon, you don’t have—”
“I’m on my way. See you in a few minutes.” With that, he ends the call, and I’m so glad he’s coming I can’t even find a reason to be annoyed by his pushiness.
Steady once more, I grab a huge bowl, two massive boxes of muffin mix, and a stirring spoon. My arms are full when I finally leave the pantry and set all the equipment on the counter. Nora taped step-by-step instructions on the muffin boxes, and I go to the stove and set the oven to preheat.
I systematically follow each directive, adding and mixing when needed until smooth batter clings against the bowl. Muffin pans lined with paper sit on the counter, and just when I’m ready to start filling them, a loud bang makes me fling a spoonful across the room.
The bang comes again, harder this time, and I think I hear my name being called. I wipe my hands, rush to the door, and open it to a scowling Dillon.
“Why didn’t you answer my call?”
“You called?”
He takes in my flour-soiled clothes, then my hair that’s likely in just as bad of shape, and a smile I’m completely not used to seeing covers his face.
“You’re a wreck,” he says.
“And you’re the most tactless knight in shining armor I’ve ever met.”
He chuckles and follows me into the kitchen. It’s then I see what he must: the batter streak across the refrigerator, eggshells on the floor since I was too rushed to pick them up, the usual pristine counter filled with empty boxes and sprays of powder.
“Remind me never to let you cook in my kitchen,” he says.
“Shut up.” I hit him, twice because it feels good, and then sigh at the absurdity of the morning. “I thought you came here to help.”
“I did.” He eyes the empty serving counter and pulls an apron from a stack of several. Not once did I notice those hanging there. “You get the plates and stuff out, and I’ll finish the muffins.”
“Are you sure you’re qualified?”
He ties the strings around his back. “I’m a single thirty-year-old man. Cooking is kind of par for the course.” His reminder that he’s unattached brings me back to the volunteer list and his ex-wife’s name. Rebecca. Somehow knowing it makes her more real, and I yearn to ask how long they were married and why it ended.
Dillon would answer truthfully if I dared to bring it up. He’s a man with no secrets, no apologies, and no nonsense. But I also know he’d take my inquiry as an invitation to do the same to me. Probe into my past, ask me deep, meaningful questions I don’t want to think about. So I keep my mouth closed and go back to the pantry and to the task at hand.
We work in companionable silence, and it’s amazing how much calmer and warmer the place seems now that Dillon is here. He moves through the kitchen like he’s spent his childhood coming here, and before long the serving counter is ready, the kitchen is once again clean and batter-free, and the last batch of muffins is baking away in the oven.
He leans against the counter, waiting for the timer to buzz. I stack the last of the napkins near the plates and sidle next to him.
“I couldn’t have done this without you,” I say. “Thank you so much.”
“You’re welcome.”
I catch movement in my peripheral and flinch.
He freezes, and I realize it’s his hand, centimeters from my face.
“You have batter.” His fingers continue moving forward until they press against the tender skin under my eye. “Right here.”
“Oh. Thanks.” I duck away and grab a clean towel from the drawer. Once it’s doused with water, I use it to scrub my face and get the last of the breakfast off my clothes.
I finish as he’s pulling the muffin trays from the oven.
“So what made you think to call me?” he asks, turning the knob to off. “Any of the staff could have helped you . . . including Cam.”
Oh. I hadn’t even considered that option.
“Six-thirty in the morning is a little early to be randomly calling the people I work with. Besides, your name is on a volunteer list they had on the wall.” I don’t mention that Rebecca’s is, too. “I guess I’m lucky they haven’t updated it.”
His gaze is unflinching. “I guess you are.”
The door in the hall squeaks open, and I hear Pete before I see him. He’s singing a Beach Boys tune about Rhonda. I can only imagine it has something to do with whatever crazy creature he’s decided to bring today. Even more strange is that I’m looking forward to finding out.
“Come on, this will be good.” I tilt my head toward the dining room. “I have a new image when I hear the word crazy.”
Dillon must be curious as well, because he follows me out of the kitchen just as Pete walks through the double doors.
He holds up what could only be described as a rodent with a heart-stamped ribbon tied in a huge bow around its neck. “Meet Rhonda Pearl. My chinchilla.” Pete moves closer and bounces his eyebrows. “Now, come on, squirmy, you can’t possibly be scared of this cute little thing.”
I cross my arms, and Dillon laughs louder than I’ve ever heard him laugh before.
Pete redirects his focus to my companion, and his smile grows twice its size. “Well, look at this. The prodigal son is home.”
“Not quite, but it is good to see you.” Dillon walks over and hugs the older man, careful not to disturb the animal in his hand. Then he actually pets the furry thing. “Hello, Ms. Pearl.” His voice changes to sound like every ridiculous pet owner I’ve ever heard. “You’re so sweet. Yes, you are.”
A snort of disbelief bursts from my throat. Who knew that big, broody Dillon would turn into mush over a little furry animal?
“Ms. January doesn’t like animals too much,” Pete says to Dillon as if I’m not in the room.
“I don’t dislike them,” I say defensively. “I just have never been around any. Nor do I usually encounter them in a place that serves food.”
“And she’s moody today,” Pete say
s.
“You should’ve seen what she did to the kitchen.”
“Heeeellloooo. Standing right here.”
“Well, look at you getting all fiery. It’s nice to see there’s someone who can push you out of that shell of yours.” Pete winks at me, then glances toward Dillon with a look full of implication. “Especially when he obviously enjoys doing it.”
My stomach tumbles, but Dillon brushes off the implication like it’s no big deal, which makes me feel stupid for reading anything into one of Pete’s offhanded comments.
“Come on, old man,” Dillon says, slapping him on the back. “I think Jan’s had enough teasing for one morning. We have a breakfast to serve, and you’ve already gotten out of the hard stuff.”
twenty-six
Cameron answers the door still in his work uniform. “Hey, gorgeous. You made it here quick. I just walked in.” He pulls me into a hug I eagerly reciprocate.
It’s four o’clock on Friday and he just came off a six-hour shift at the grocery store. I know he has to be exhausted.
I spy the empty apartment. “Where is everyone?”
“Gone.” He pulls back and winks, tugging me along with him. “Maybe if we’re lucky, it will stay that way for more than two minutes.”
I follow him to his room and sit on the bed while he shuts the door. It’s not bad for a bachelor in his late twenties. His bed is made, and only a handful of clothes litter the floor.
“So, what did you do today?”
I shift and pull my knees up on the bed to face him. “Helped Doreen. She’s been a whirlwind getting ready for the spring. I guess the venue gets crazy busy starting next month.”
“Yeah, I can see that. The weather being nice and all.” He leans over and takes off his tennis shoes. “And Ralph? Any word on if he’s actually returning in this decade?”
“Yes.” I sigh gratefully. “He’s home and will be back in the office on Monday.”
“Good.” He comes over, cups my face, and leans down to give me a much-desired hello kiss. “Now maybe you can go back to hanging out in the band room with me.” He gathers his clothes to take into the bathroom and points. “Don’t move. I’ll literally be five minutes.”
“Take your time. I’m not going anywhere.”
After he leaves, I walk around the semi-clean space. On the dresser is a framed photo of the two of us. I pick it up and slide my finger over the glass. It’s a selfie he took last week. I’m laughing and he’s smiling back at me as if I were an angel sent just for him. Seeing it front and center makes my chest constrict.
I set the frame back down and move on to the other photos. There’s one of Darcy and him as toddlers eating ice cream cones, ones from youth camp with his entire gang, most of whom I’ve met. There’s even one with Dillon in it from high school that catches me off guard. He seems so detached now from anything involving the church that I forget he, too, grew up attending Grace Community.
They’re the same pictures that were on Cameron’s walls the first time I came in here, but every time I look, I see a new detail—a look that feels more meaningful, or in this case, a hand in Dillon’s. One that belongs to someone who’s been cropped out of the photo. I step closer, wondering if the hand is Rebecca’s. Somehow I know that it is and consider what it must feel like to be loved by a man who tackles every task with fierce dedication.
The door opens behind me, and I turn around, feeling guilty for some reason. Cameron’s hair is messy and wet. He’s barefoot, wearing gym shorts and a Grace Community T-shirt. He tosses his work clothes into the corner hamper and turns back to me. “Much better.”
I study his easygoing smile and marvel that in only a month I went from the darkest pit of depression to being in a relationship with a man who treats me like his treasure.
I walk up to him and put my arms around his waist, grateful to be the one he cherishes.
“What’s that for?” He hugs me back, tight and protective.
“Just because you’re you,” I say, my nose pressed into his chest. He smells like minty soap and deodorant. Like strength and tenderness. Like my fresh start.
He releases me with a kiss to the top of my head. “Okay, you ready for some Michael Scott?” We’ve been watching episodes of The Office together, mostly because it makes us both laugh, and after the chaos of the last couple of weeks, the break has been invaluable.
“Absolutely.”
He walks over to his desk and grabs his laptop, and we settle into our places on his bed. Backs against the headboard. The computer propped on a pillow between us. But instead of pulling up the movie website, he shuts the top.
“Everything okay?” I ask.
He takes my hand in his and kisses the inside of my wrist. Tiny bolts of electricity dance down my arm and into the tips of my nails. It makes me want to pounce on him and never come up for air.
I swallow away the impulse and watch as he slides his fingers over the lines in my palm, his eyes transfixed on the motion.
“I’m absolutely dreading my birthday,” he says, though it’s barely audible above the sigh. “Every morning I wake up and wonder where all the time went. Wonder how it’s possible I’m turning twenty-nine and have nothing to look forward to. Not even a prospect of a future in music. I mean, last year at this time, we were making a CD, had a concert scheduled, and now . . . every one of my bandmates seems perfectly content to just settle for Sunday morning. Well, I’m not.” His voice cracks with emotion. “I want more. I was meant for more.” He sets down my hand and attempts to give me a broken smile. “How’s that for a confession?”
“I’m sorry.” I don’t know what else to say or even how to express the way my heart hurts for him. “What can I do to make it better?”
“Nothing. I just hope you don’t wake up one day and realize you’re dating a failure.”
“Cameron . . .”
“I’m kidding.” He leans in and kisses me. It’s slow and sad, and makes me want to cry because I feel very certain that he isn’t kidding. He pulls away and turns his attention to the ceiling, watching it as if it holds some kind of answer. “I keep praying, and I keep getting silence. I mean, God has tested me before, but never like this.” He turns his head and looks at me with the same expectation.
Only I don’t have any words of encouragement because I really don’t understand what being “tested” means. And truthfully, apart from the one freak coincidence with Mrs. Cox in the hospital, the whole concept of prayer still feels a little weird.
“Anyway, enough on that,” he says. “Tell me something about you. Something important.”
“What do you mean?”
“You never talk about your life, your family. Just the job and your aunt. Tell me something about your childhood.”
“I don’t know what to say. I went to school, did homework, played outside.”
He scowls.
“What? I don’t know what you’re looking for. My life has been pretty low-key.” It’s a lie above all lies, but I don’t want my past to tarnish our time together. It’s done. Gone. Forgotten.
“Cop-out answer,” he teases and wiggles his fingers. “Don’t make me tickle it out of you.” The nice thing about Cameron growing up in a strong home with loving parents is that he never reads too much into my deflections. Truth is, his sheltered existence makes it easier for me to pretend I’ve had one, too. “So . . . we need to finalize plans for Valentine’s Day. I vote for dinner and a really cute dress. Something sparkly and pink.”
Ah . . . Valentine’s Day. I secretly cannot wait. It’s been years since I’ve had a boyfriend on what is usually a single woman’s least favorite day of the year. Which is why I probably will find something sparkly and pink for no other reason than to make his dimples appear. “Only if you wear a suit and tie.”
He groans but agrees, his eyes half closed because my fingers are now massaging his scalp. I playfully bring his hair to point, the strands sticking up in all directions. His morning shave has worn off,
and I know the T-shirt he’s wearing is at least ten years old and his go-to for comfort. It’s my favorite look of his: relaxed, happy, and devoid of any pretention. Cameron isn’t vain, so to speak, but he does take great care in his appearance, especially if we’re somewhere that serves as a good backdrop for social media content.
Quietly enough that he doesn’t notice, I ease my phone from my pocket and snap a picture. He’s been bugging me about changing the wallpaper on my screen to the two of us, and this one is perfect.
“What did you just do?” He leans up, freeing my other arm.
I quickly save the picture and lock my phone. “Nothing.”
“Let me see it.”
“Nope. You won’t approve and I love it.”
“Please, pretty please?” He nuzzles my neck, but it’s only to distract me until he snatches my phone off the nightstand.
“Cameron!” But it’s too late. He’s already off the bed and backing away toward the hallway. “The phone’s locked.”
“Yeah, but you forget I’m observant.” He presses multiple buttons, and I know the exact moment he gets it right because a victorious smile flashes across his face.
“Cameron, come on. You never let me take candid shots of you.” My chase is futile. He’s too quick, his arms too long.
Until suddenly he quits the game, his hand dropping so he can look at the photo closer. His face falls into a frown while he slides his finger to several more photos.
“What is it?”
His new position allows me to finally see the pictures that have him pausing. They’re ones of Dillon and me from earlier today when Doreen had an impromptu painting party. She’d bought three new tables for the reception hall, and they all needed to be sanded, primed, and painted.
I work to keep my voice light. “See, this is what you get when your sixty-year-old aunt decides to steal your phone.” There’s at least a dozen of the two of us kidding around. In this case, we’re flinging paint at each other.
“You guys look like a couple.” Cameron locks the phone again and passes it back to me. “When was that?”
“Today. Remember . . . Doreen, the spring wedding whirlwind? It was all hands on deck.”
Love and a Little White Lie Page 17
