Page 16 of November's Bad Boy: Kacen
“You cook now?” I tease as I set the folder of notes on the table.
She shoots me a look. “I’ve always cooked. You just never stuck around long enough to find out.”
I wince, but she doesn’t say it with venom. Just fact.
“Smells good in here,” I say, my voice too low.
Natalie is in the kitchen, barefoot and dressed down in jeans and a faded sweatshirt that makes her look somehow younger and more like herself than I’ve ever seen. Her hair’s pulled back in one of those loose knots, a few strands falling around her face. She glances up and offers a crooked smile.
“Don’t let the smell fool you. I almost burned the carrots.”
I grin, stepping farther in. “I like my vegetables with a little trauma.”
“Perfect. Then you’ll love dinner.”
I follow her into the kitchen, setting the beer on the counter next to a pan of roasted chicken and a bowl of mashed potatoes that look like they were whipped with some kind of magic. She moves, pretending it’s no big deal, but I can tell she’s overthinking it, the same way I am. Her hands keep smoothing the edge of a dish towel she doesn’t need.
“You want help setting the table?” I ask.
She shrugs. “Sure. Plates are in the cabinet to your right.”
Dinner is better than it has any right to be. We eat across from each other, not touching the plans, not rushing through conversation. She tells me about a kitchen fire from last winter and how she replaced the entire stovetop herself. I tell her about the time Kingston tried to grill on the balcony in Chicago and set off four alarms. She tells me she’s been testing new cookie recipes and asks if I still hate white chocolate.
“Not if you’re the one baking it,” I say without thinking.
Her eyes flick up at that, something unreadable in them, but she doesn’t push it.
After dinner, we move to the couch with the big binder between us. The seating chart is still a nightmare, and I end up redrawing half of it just to make space between two warring neighbors. Natalie watches me work with a small smile on her face.
“You always this good with people?” she asks.
“Only when I’m trying to avoid getting yelled at by Ruby.”
“Can I ask you something?” she asks quietly.
“Always.”
She hesitates, eyes on the paper. “Why were you so mean to me back then?”
My heart stumbles. I set the pen down and lean back, trying to find the words that won’t sound like excuses. I’ve thought this more times than I can count, and while my instinct is to just joke my way out of this, she deserves more.
“Because I was hurting,” I say slowly. “Because I was angry and stupid and scared.”
Her jaw tightens. She nods, but I see the steel behind her eyes.
“You called me names,” she says. “Laughed when other people did too. And not just once. You made sure I knew I didn’t belong. Every damn day.”
I look at her. Really look. And the weight of what I did settles heavier than it ever has before.
“I know,” I say. “I think about it more than you probably believe. I think about how I came back to town angry at my dad for everything he did to my mom. How I looked at you and saw the part of my life I couldn’t control. And instead of being decent, I turned into someone I hate. I tried to punish you because I blamed your mom for breaking up my family, for my mom being taken away, for Kingston ending up in jail.”
She doesn’t look away.
“You didn’t deserve that. That blame was squarely on my dad, and I’ve let him know it many times. You were smart and kind and always trying to disappear into yourself, and I made it worse. And I will never forgive myself for it. I don’t want you to either. But I do want you to know I was wrong. And I’m sorry.”
Silence stretches between us, a breath caught in the air.
She looks at me with something unreadable in her eyes. “Do you know how long I carried it? How many times I looked in the mirror and thought, maybe if I were smaller, you wouldn’t have hated me so much?”
