Page 84 of The Finish Line

“Tobias is a coffee snob, and he rubbed off on me,” Cecelia replies, on autopilot where she stands at the stove. She insisted on cooking but has been in a stupor since she started, tossing wary glances my way. I do my best to convey in my return gaze that I’m okay with the situation and see nothing but apology in her eyes. Her phone rattles where it rests in her apron on the counter, drawing her attention away. She pulls it out to read a text, staring at it for several beats before she starts to type a response.

All I want to do right now is gather her to me and assure her I’m all right, which surprisingly, I am. I often wondered how I would feel if I ever came face-to-face with the woman responsible for making me and my brother orphans at this point in my life. It’s a surprise to me how little resentment I feel toward her, but I made peace with it long ago. When I look at Diane now, all I see is the tortured and very pregnant teenager I met. I can still clearly remember the devastation on her face that day and the constant tears she battled the entire time we were together. That, combined with my love for her daughter, keeps me from harboring anything dangerous. It’s uncomfortable, but only because of the two women vibrating with emotions, feeding off each other.

Diane has practically turned to stone where she sits, and I do my best not to let my gaze linger on her, knowing she’s just as torn now as she was then. Some part of me feels the need to comfort her, but I have no idea how to go about it with the way she’s reacting to me. Timothy is clearly oblivious or playing blind to the ten-ton, red elephant in the room as he rattles on about the weather and his new RV.

Nodding every so often, I watch Cecelia closely, her shoulders tensing as she texts. She’s due for work any minute and hasn’t missed a day since I’ve been here.

“Everything okay at Meggie’s?” I ask, and she nods her head subtly before Tim tries to lure her back into conversation. “What you’ve done to this place since the last time we were here is incredible, Cecelia.”

“Thank you,” she replies lifelessly, abandoning the pancakes to type a mile a minute. The next text that comes through has her smacking her phone against the counter. Standing due to her sudden change in demeanor, I walk over to where she’s standing, and she looks back at me, eyeing me for long seconds before directing her scowl at her mother. “What’s going on? Is that Marissa?”

“Everything’s fine,” she responds with a frosty bite. “One of my waitresses no-showed.”

“Do you want me to head over and help?”

She bites her lips together and shakes her head. “Of course not. They’ve got it. Go sit down.” She lifts her chin toward the table. “I’ve got this.”

“Sure?”

“Tobias,” she sighs as I circle her waist from behind, resting my chin on her shoulder.

“This is okay. I am okay,” I whisper.

“Well, I’m not fucking okay,” she hisses, tensing in my arms.

She retrieves her spatula from the counter, flipping a perfectly round cake as I run my fingers along her stomach. “Look at me, Trésor.”

Hostile eyes meet mine, and confusion sets in. I can’t get a clear read on her. I press my forehead to hers. “This was going to happen sooner or later.” She bites her lip thoughtfully, seeming to finally focus on me before her eyes soften. “It’s too much to ask of you.”

“No, it’s not. If you can forgive me, anything is possible, right?”

She dismisses me, pulling out of my hold with the sharp dip of her chin. Following silent orders, I reclaim my seat at the table, confused about what’s going on inside of her. It’s clear her relationship with her mother is strained, and our combined presence here isn’t helping.

Timothy swallows, his eyes darting around as he begins to sense it and fidget, but being the man he is, he’s opted to bullshit around it. After another sad attempt by him to break the foot-thick ice, Diane speaks up. “So how long,” she asks in a weak tone, drawing my attention from Cecelia. “How long have you two been seeing each other?”

“That’s a complicated question, but the short version is we were together briefly before she went to college and just got back together three weeks ago.”

“Complicated,” Cecelia harrumphs. “I’ll say.” She flips a pancake, a very, very angry cook, and I frown at her back before she turns to address me. “She doesn’t need to know.” She slams her spatula down and folds her arms across her chest. It seems she’s on a fucking warpath now, and none of us seem to be safe. Timothy audibly swallows, his coffee halfway to his mouth.

“Well, I would love to know,” Diane retorts, her eyes flitting from Cecelia to me.

“I’m sure you would,” Cecelia snarks, hurtling the milk back into the fridge before slamming it closed.

“What’s important now,” I referee, “is that we’re together, for good.” Cecelia cuts off the burner, adding the last of the pancakes to a platter before setting them next to the bacon waiting on the table.

“Orange juice?” she barks in what feels like accusation at the three of us, and we collectively shake our heads in reply.

Timothy digs in, looking for any excuse to keep his eyes down and his mouth full. Diane ignores the food, staring between her daughter and me as I busy myself, piling cakes onto my plate and digging in, hoping to ease some of the churn in my stomach. Cecelia’s focus remains fixed on me as she feeds some bacon to Beau.

“That bacon is yours,” I scorn her. “Eat.”

“I’m not hungry.” I can’t help my grin as a glimpse of the stubborn nineteen-year-old that ruined me for all others peeks through. “Trésor... ”

“You eat,” she snaps before her eyes again soften and dart between her mother and me.

“Please,” I ask, nudging her, using her maternal concern for me to my advantage. She narrows her eyes, letting me know she’s onto me but shoves a bite into her mouth anyway.

“So, I’m assuming you aren’t coming with us now, due to company?” Timothy asks, now attuned to the chemistry at the table.

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