For the past three months, Cree and Kennedy had been coming out on the weekends to spend time with them. The girls had become fast friends, which didn’t surprise either Cree or Texas.
Sunday sat curled up next to Texas on the sofa, laughing as Cree animatedly told them about the first time he met Kennedy. Some parts of the story sounded almost unbelievable to Sunday. The image of Kennedy leaping off the motorcycle while Cree fought to keep it from crashing made her eyes widen. She didn’t think she could react that quickly, even if her life depended on it.
“I swear she’s part monkey,” Cree said with a chuckle, just as Kennedy playfully slapped his arm.
Sunday sat up abruptly, a wave of nausea washing over her. She swallowed hard, her attention snapping to the tightening in her stomach. Scrambling away from Texas, she tried to stand, but a sharp bout of dizziness hit her, and she collapsed onto the rug-covered wooden floor.
For a moment, she thought about how clumsy she was being, until a fierce cramp clenched her stomach. If her legs wouldn’t hold her, she’d crawl to the bathroom.
As she struggled to get back up, Texas was already there, lifting her effortlessly into his arms. “Hang on,” he murmured firmly.
Before she could pitch forward, he had her safely by the toilet.
Sunday lunged for the toilet, grabbing onto the sides as she emptied the contents of her stomach. She felt Texas gently pull her hair back, keeping it out of the way. She wanted to thank him, but her stomach was far from finished.
“Can I help?” Kennedy asked softly from the doorway.
Texas didn’t hesitate. “In the cupboard right next to you are some washcloths. Can you grab one and dampen it?”
Kennedy turned toward the cupboard, reaching in and pulling out a washcloth. She wet it under the sink, wrung it out, then held it out to Texas. With his attention fully on Sunday, she called softly, “Here, put it on the back of her neck.”
“Thank you,” Sunday managed between dry heaves, resting her head against the cool porcelain rim of the toilet. But her stomach clenched again, and she had to lean back over the bowl. “Kennedy, can you call my mom? Her numbers on the fridge.”
“Yeah, I can do that.”
“No, don’t bother her. I probably have food poisoning,” Sunday said, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.
“Call my mom,” Texas said firmly, his voice leaving no room for argument.
He didn’t know why he wanted his mother to come check on Sunday—he just did. He hadn’t taken care of a woman in three years. He didn’t get sick. Ever. He had no clue what could be wrong with her. The one thing Texas was sure of was that Sunday didn’t have food poisoning. After all, they’d all eaten the same thing.
Thirty minutes later, Pierre and Kathryn came barreling into the driveway. Texas’s dad barely managed to stop the truck before his mom leapt out, her urgency making it clear she hadn’t expected to be called. Even in her hurried state, Kathryn was impeccably put together—always composed, even when she was out picking apples.
She stormed into the room and scanned the faces. “Where’s Sunday?”
“They’re in the bedroom,” Kennedy told Kathryn, then followed her down the hall.
“Sunday thinks she ate something that’s making her sick.”
“Did she eat the same thing as everyone else?” Kathryn asked sharply.
Kennedy hesitated for a split second before answering, “Yes, we all ate the same thing.”
“Then it’s not that,” Kathryn said firmly as she reached the end of the hall.
Kathryn lightly knocked on the door and waited until her son said, “Come in,” before stepping inside. Hot on her heels was Kennedy, who glanced at Kathryn, only to see her shaking her head.
Kennedy held up her hands in surrender and quietly stepped out of the room. But one day, she thought, it wouldn’t be her retreating and surrendering to Texas’s mom’s disapproval. It would be Kathryn who found herself shaking her head at her.
Closing the door behind her, Kennedy returned to the living room, where Cree and Pierre were deep in casual conversation—neither man showing any concern for Sunday.
Back in the bedroom, Texas sat on the bed, his back against the headboard, Sunday’s head resting gently in his lap. His mother stood nearby, her eyes filled with quiet sympathy. The unspoken words between them hung heavy in the air.
Texas’s mind raced with worry. What if Sunday was pregnant? He knew his mother would adore having a baby to dote on, but she also understood his hesitation.
“Ange, would you go in the kitchen and make me a cup of tea?” he asked softly.
Texas didn’t want to leave Sunday. She had barely stopped throwing up, but he trusted his mom to handle her gently.