Page 61 of Dark Angel

“We can’t share a room at her house.” Layers of unspoken tension stream through our link. This isn't just about room arrangements. Before I have time to formulate any theories on what might lie beneath Jaden’s reaction to any mention of his mother, he pulls up in front of a slightly worn but sturdy wartime home. A small, well-tended garden blooms at the front, a splash of color against the drab brown of the brick, with a large blooming bush dominating the small front yard. Without a word, he gets out of the car and strides to the front door. “Coming?”

I guess I am. I grab my bag, quickly take in the gravel drive and a house that could use some work, and file away another nugget about Jaden to ponder later—why hasn’t he fixed up his mom’s home or bought her a new one?

We step into the happy chaos of a family gathering, a scene I’ve only dreamed of until now. The large farm kitchen buzzes with people, surrounding a dining table set with fine china and a tablecloth. Happy laughter and welcoming slaps on the back greet Jaden. “Hey Jaden, so good to see you,” says his Uncle Clancy, “short for Clarence,” he informs me with a jolly laugh and sparkling eyes. He’s well on his way to being shit-faced, but there’s something about him I like. It reminds me of glimpses I see of the Jaden that he works so hard to hide from the world.

A small, older woman with a radiant smile makes her way through, gently pushing Clancy aside. "My turn. We were beginning to think you wouldn’t come again.”

Jaden’s body tenses at her words, but before I can delve into his reaction, another woman, imposing in stature with the largest rack I’ve ever seen, steps forward and gives Jaden a hearty slap on the back. "Jaden, dear, we almost sent out a search party for you.” She laughs, but her tone carries an undercurrent of criticism. I wince, feeling the sting of her affection through our bond.

Her gaze then turns to me, appraising. "And who have we here?" A woman with an aura of authority walks through the gathering as if she commands it with mere presence. Despite her friendly facade, I sense her disapproval. Guilt washes over me for my uncharitable thoughts, quickly countered by Nye’s advice echoing in my mind: "Follow your instincts. They’re one of your gifts."

“Mom,” Jaden’s harsh tone hides something softer, more vulnerable than I'm used to coming from him. “This is my friend, Rayne.”

His mother's eyes flicker to me, sharp and assessing, before a polite smile graces her lips. “Pleasure to meet you, Rayne. Jaden hasn’t mentioned you.”

Her words, laced with an edge of surprise—or is it suspicion?—send a wave of discomfort through me. Jaden's hand finds its way to the small of my back, a silent reassurance that's more for him than me. The complexity of their relationship unfolds in that brief exchange, a story told in the silence between words.

He leads me through the den to a small, secluded room, dropping our bags on a single bed. "This was my room," he says, the past tense hanging in the air.

Before I can absorb the room’s details, his mother’s voice calls us back to the kitchen, where we join the family around the massive table for dinner. Jaden’s hand wraps around the back of my neck as we leave his bedroom, only dropping it when he pulls me into a seat at the other end of the table from his mother.

For the most part, we manage to blend into the background amid the turkey dinner hustle, surrounded by family, friends, and neighbors gathered for Gloria's birthday—a detail Jaden omitted. Gloria's attention pivots to me only once, pushing lima beans towards me with a zeal that's unmistakably personal. “Leave the girl be, Gloria,” Uncle Clancy chuckles as he passes the bowl.

“No thanks,” I say, giving the beans the vomit-worthy look they deserve.

“You've not tasted mine. Give them a try. You'll change your mind.” Gloria’s tone turns the moment into a challenge that silences the room. The collective anticipation feels almost tangible, a bizarre spotlight on me over something as silly as beans.

Feeling Jaden's tension spike, I relent, sampling the beans with exaggerated care, only to confirm, “Nope, still not a fan, but thank you.” Uncle Clancy barks out a laugh and the room's tension breaks. Gloria, momentarily taken aback, disguises her surprise with a huff, pondering aloud to the universe how anyone could dislike lima beans. Jaden’s brief squeeze on my thigh sends his silent approval of how I handled his mother, and I send a silent prayer of relief to the universe. Whatever the hell is going on between him and his mother, one thing is clear: he needs me.

I’m safe until dessert, which offers a choice between damned good pumpkin or apple pie. Jaden leans in, the warmth of his whisper tickling my neck and igniting a familiar heat within me. “My mother can’t cook worth a damn, but she makes a great pie.”

As if on cue, Gloria presents a plate of tarts with a flourish, declaring, “And of course, I made your favorite, mincemeat tarts.” She places one on my plate with a definitive defiant gesture. “Have one.”

I instinctively move the tart onto Jaden’s plate, murmuring a polite “no thanks.” The very thought of mincemeat—far worse in my book than lima beans—makes my stomach turn. The room's reaction is immediate, a collective gasp that cements Gloria's role as the undisputed matriarch.

The ensuing "try one" dance feels painfully familiar, yet I manage to keep my composure, barely suppressing an eye roll. A part of me yearns for his family's approval, but another, more defiant part, whispers that my gut instincts about this evening were spot on. Yet, I can't pinpoint the source of my unease, only that the subtle undercurrents of disapproval and superiority from the older generation feel almost palpable. Jaden's three siblings seem more curious than judgmental, hinting that Jaden rarely brings guests around.

As the dinner winds down and the neighbors depart, the atmosphere shifts. The din subsides to a comfortable hum, but Jaden's growing tension is apparent. His mother's announcement of "our usual celebratory drink" seems to heighten it further. Aunt Mary and Gloria fixate on me with an intensity that feels like scrutiny, while Rowan, with her striking red hair, appears more interested in her wine than the family dynamics at play.

Jaden's agitation is evident, his foot tapping a silent rhythm of anxiety. I admire his restraint, the way he holds himself with a quiet strength that speaks of battles fought and inner demons wrestled into submission. I telegraph my admiration, my pride in his resilience through our bond, but Gloria's voice slices through the moment, demanding attention with a sweetness that doesn't quite reach her eyes.

“So, Rayne, where are you from, dear?” Gloria’s question, cloaked in the guise of casual conversation, reminds me eerily of Lady Portia Featherington from Bridgerton—politeness veiling a manipulative and controlling core.

“She doesn’t need the third degree.” Jaden’s voice is laced with a dry belligerence.

Gloria’s response is a theatrical display of indignation, her huge bosom heaving dramatically. “We’re just trying to get to know your little friend, son. It’s not every day you bring someone home.” The unsaid hangs heavily in the air, implying a trespass on her domain without her permission.

“Yes, Jaden, we just want to get to know your little friend better,” Aunt Mary chimes in, mirroring Gloria’s tone, a condescension thinly veiled as interest. Their generation’s tone is all too familiar, but it doesn’t unsettle me; it’s an echo of attitudes I’ve encountered before, a reflection of a bygone era’s mindset.

I intervene, aiming to steer the conversation away from escalating further. “I’m from Toronto.”

“But where were you born, dear?” Gloria persists.

“Toronto—”

“For fuck’s sake. I’m out of here.” Jaden reaches the end of his patience and abruptly stands, the scrape of his chair cutting through the tension. His departure is swift, leaving a silence punctuated only by the door slamming behind him.

“What’s wrong with him? Where is he going? When is he coming back?” The collective gaze shifts to me along with the barrage of questions.

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