Page 79 of Frosting and Flames

“I’ve made peace with it,” I say, needing to fill the silence. I’m a pretty solitary person by nature, but those last couple of years with him before I graduated were so… lonely. I almost wept with joy when Tanner agreed to move out with me.

She nods, and the air goes thick with awkwardness. Shit. Dad always had a way of ruining things, even beyond the grave.

“Sorry to kill the vibes.”

“No, no. You didn’t. I was the one who brought it up. Besides, I want to know that kind of stuff about you. To know… everything about you.”

I rub the back of my neck. “I’m not used to talking about myself.” No one at the fire station cares about stuff like that, and Tanner has been around for it all.

“Maybe you could try? For me?”

Like she even has to ask. “Absolutely. I’m an open book. What do you want to know?”

We finish up dinner as we talk all about myself. It feels selfish and unnatural to hog the conversation, but she gradually gets me to open up more, and when she asks about my mom again, it doesn’t seem so daunting.

“Tell me something about her,” she says. “A good memory.”

There’s that familiar tightness in my chest, but it’s not entirely painful. Like a muscle that’s sore with disuse.

I flip past the memories at the end where she was sick in the hospital, connected to all sorts of tubes and monitors that ultimately did nothing for her. “She loved to sing,” I tell her. “She had a great voice.”

“My mom can’t hold a tune to save her life.” Rachel smiles softly. “Did your mom sing to you?”

“Every night before bed. To keep the monsters away.”

Her eyes sparkle with delight. “I love that. How old were you?”

“Uh…” Older than I’d like to admit. “That’s not important.”

She chuckles. “Do you remember the song?”

I scratch my jaw. I haven’t thought about this in a long time. “Not fully. Something about shadows and the stars being bright. I don’t think it was an actual song. Just something she made up for me.”

Closing my eyes, I try to hear her voice again, but it won’t come to me. I can’t recall the exact way she sounded. Can’t remember the song she made for me.

Rachel lets go of my hand to touch my cheek and I realize there’s moisture there.

I stand, my chair scraping back, and turn away. “Shit. Sorry.”

How fucking mortifying. I’m trying to make up this first date and I start tearing up?

She stands and rounds the table until she’s in front of me. “You have nothing to be sorry for. I asked you to share something vulnerable and you did. Thank you.”

I nod, swallowing past the stubborn lump in my throat. “I never think about her. Or Dad. It’s easier not to.”

Her expression wavers, her own eyes glistening now, and she wraps her arms around me. “That’s okay.”

As she tucks her face against my shoulder, something inside me unravels and I lean into her, letting myself breathe her in. It’s been a long time since I’ve been so open with someone else.

“I wish I could have met her,” she whispers.

I close my eyes for a beat, my chin resting against her hair. “Me, too.”

For the first time in years, I let my thoughts linger on my mom. She’d cheer for me at my baseball games as a kid. Bake cookies every Christmas. Hum to herself in the kitchen as she made dinner.

Things about my dad, too. Before everything went to shit. Riding in his truck, listening to the classic rock station. Watching him fix up things around the house with his beat-up metal toolbox.

There are other things I should remember, but they’re just beyond reach. Dad’s handwriting. The feel of Mom’s hug or the sound of her laugh.

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