Page 200 of Beautiful Collide

Next, we head to the kitchen.

“I know this isn’t a new room, but a tour isn’t a tour unless I tell you a story in each room.”

“Is that so?” she teases.

“It is.” I point my hand to the oven. “For example, that’s where I accidentally set a fire and almost burned down the house.”

Molly gasps.

“Don’t worry. We put it out.”

“You think?” She rolls her eyes.

I run a hand along the counter as I talk. “This is where Mom makes the magic happen. Her cinnamon rolls are legendary. One time, Mason tried to bribe her into making them for the whole team. Maybe you’ll get lucky, and she’ll make some while you’re here.” I throw in a wink.

“Did it work?” she asks.

“Of course it did,” I reply with a laugh. “Mom can’t resist feeding people. But Mason had to help clean the barn in exchange. He lasted ten minutes before he bailed. Pun intended.”

Her laughter fills the kitchen, and I feel a swell of pride. I don’t know what it is about making her laugh, but it feels like winning a game in overtime. Like I’d do anything just to hear it again.

After a quick stop in the dining room, where I point out the chair I broke when I was ten trying to pull off an “epic dive,”we head upstairs. The air feels quieter up here, more personal. She’s walking through memories I haven’t shared with anyone in a long time.

We stop in the hallway, and I gesture to my door. “Obviously, you know that’s my room.”

“Hard to miss the hockey shrine when I first walked in there,” she says dryly, her eyes sparkling as she gestures to the posters and trophies lining the walls.

“Hey, those were my glory days,” I say, feigning offense.

She rolls her eyes but smiles anyway, and I feel like I’m fourteen again, trying to impress someone I like. God, I’m pathetic. But also? I kind of don’t care.

“And this,” I say, stopping in front of the door across the hall, “is Anna’s room.”

I push the door open, and she peeks inside. The bright and cheerful room is full of books, art supplies, and Anna’s signature chaos. Photos and postcards cover the corkboard on the wall, a patchwork of her life.

“She’s the artistic one in the family.” That is obvious from the state of her room. But I still point out a sketch pad on her desk. “Always painting or drawing something.”

“That’s amazing,” Molly says, turning to look at me.

“She’s amazing,” I say simply because it’s true. “Sometimes she’s a pain in the ass, of course, but I love her.”

We head back into the hallway. “Now, where is thiscraftroom?”

I’m sure it’s obvious to Molly that there is no craft room, or at least there never was. Neither one of us is in any denial that something was up with my mother.

I’m curious to see what her play is. I’m pretty sure I know, but seeing and thinking are too different things.

I point at the door across from mine. “So, this is it, thefamouscraft room,” I say, pushing open the door to what used to be the guest room.

Molly steps in behind me, her arms crossed. I pivot to look at her and bite back a laugh.

I can practically hear her thoughts as she surveys the mess inside. The twin bed is shoved haphazardly against one wall.

Yeah, no one is buying this, Mom.

If the bed’s location isn’t bad enough, the mattress is leaning slightly off the frame.

She didn’t even bother to make this look believable.

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