Page 12 of The Last Key
The bacon is almost done, but really, I need him a step away from me or I might spontaneously burst into flames.
When the bacon is done, I flick off the heat, transferthe strips to a paper towel-lined plate, then turn the heat back on and add the eggs.
“Cheese?” Devon asks.
“American, if you have some.”
“Got it.”
He puts cheese then bacon on the top halves of our bagels, then butters the bottom halves. When the eggs are done, I put them on the bottoms of the bagels. Then Devon quickly closes the sandwiches and takes our plates to the kitchen counter.
I’m feeling a bit cooler as I sit down next to him, but I’m hoping he keeps his hands to himself. Not because I don’t want him to touch me, but because I don’t know what him touching me means. I was certain that Devon would never have feelings for me—even if he did, they’d be fleeting. Today, though, I’m not so sure.
“I thought we’d head to the inn after this,” he says between bites. “Gladys can’t wait to see you.”
“I can’t wait to see her, either. But what about your parents? Can we stop and see them on the way?”
Sadness flits through his eyes for a moment, but he nods. “Yeah. We can. But… Kend, they aren’t going to be how you remember them.”
“How bad has it gotten?” I ask. His mom is active on social media and we talk a lot, but she always makes things sound great. Devon hasn’t talked much about their health, and since I talk to his mom often, I haven’t asked him. It didn’t occur to me that she’d be lying about it. But of course she would.
He sighs and spins on his stool so he’s facing me. “Dad has to use crutches to get around most days. On good ones, he can use a cane. He had a pretty steep decline last summer, but he’s evened out since then. Mom has good days and bad ones, but the ache and weakness in her hips and knees make it hard for her to get out of a chair some days. After having to drop everything several times to go help her get up, because Dad couldn’t support her, I finally got them the recliners that can lift you up tostanding. I also have aides that check in and help make meals for them. They let me oversee their financials when they sold me the house. I put the money I paid them into an account that I use solely to pay for aides, so I can make sure if they need help, they have it. Luckily, the building has a concierge service if there’s an emergency, too.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
He looks at me for a second, then stands up and paces back and forth next to the island.
“Because it kills me. My mom was the one who ran a daycare out of the inn and kept up with every kid. She brought baked goods to every school sporting event I had. She and my dad were involved with everything at the inn. Dad refused to hire a groundskeeper for years because he loved mowing the lawn and taking care of the gardens there. They were active and full of life. I hate seeing what they’ve been reduced to. When we have kids, they won’t be able to play with them. It sucks.”
Blowing past the fact that he said “whenwehave kids” because now is not the time to harp on that, I hop off my stool and step in front of him, pulling him into my arms.
“I’m so sorry, Dev.”
He melts into my arms, resting his head against mine as he holds me close.
“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you.”
“It’s okay. But I want to support you. I should’ve come back here sooner.”
“No. You were working hard building your career.”
“A lot of good that did me,” I say with a laugh. He laughs lightly too as we step apart. “I’m here now. And I want to help out. You. Your parents. The inn. Whatever. I’m here for you.”
“I know you are.” His voice is soft and reverent and his eyes are tender as he looks at me. Again, my body warms and my breath sticks in my throat.
For the briefest of moments, his gaze drops to my lips.
My lips?
No. I’m imagining it, right?
“So,” I say, breaking the tension, “let’s finish our breakfasts, then we’ll go.”
“Sounds good,” he agrees, sitting back on the stool.
I wait a beat, taking a deep breath and trying to calm my pounding heart and raging hormones because it seems like Devon mightwantme. And I’m not sure what to do with that.
“Hey,where’d you put my stuff?” I call, standing outside the spare room. Maybe he stuck it in the closet in there? All I know is I need to freshen up before we leave the house. Wash my face and put on some clean clothes. Nothing like riding on a plane for six hours to make you feel gross.
