Page 95 of Don't Let Me Fall (Don't Let Me 1)

I bite my lip, too stunned to know what to say. “I didn’t do much,” I hedge.

“And I beg to differ,” she counters. “He likes you, you know.”

I smile back at her. Scrubbing at the skillet with the cleaning brush, I admit, “I like him too.”

“It’s nice to see him smile again.”

There’s a sadness tainting her words. I glance over at her and swipe some hair away from my forehead with the back of my soapy hand. “Oh?”

“Yeah. When his father died, I was afraid he’d never smile again.”

Well, shit.

With my heart in my stomach, I chew on my lower lip and offer, “I’m really sorry, Mrs. Thorne.”

“Don’t be. It isn’t your fault.”

“Your son told me the same thing when I found out about his dad and apologized,” I tell her.

She laughs. “I guess we’re two peas in a pod.”

“I guess you are. But I am still sorry. Even though it isn’t my fault,” I clarify, rinsing the skillet under the water and handing it to Mrs. Thorne so she can dry it. “It still sucks.”

With a sad smile, she takes the cookware and wipes it dry with the dishtowel. “Yes. Yes, it still sucks. Thank you, though. For pushing him to come to Sunday brunch again. Since Knox and Garrett have been out of state, it’s been Blakely and me. Reconnecting with Colt after his father’s death”––she pats my soapy hand––“it means a lot to me.”

“I think it means a lot to him too. And thank you for raising Colt the way you have.”

“He’s quite the gentleman,” she agrees, and I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from snorting. Thankfully, Mrs. Thorne doesn’t notice and adds, “They had a good example in the home, you know. Their father was a gem.”

“If he was anything like Colt, I believe it.”.

“He was a lot like Colt.” She sniffs and pats the corner of her eye with the edge of her dishtowel. “Those two were close. They’d talk for hours every Sunday, watching whatever game was on for the day. Didn’t matter what sport. They just liked talking. It was adorable.”

My heart aches at the pain in her voice, but I don’t comment on it. Instead, I give her a smile and say, “Sounds like it.”

Wiping the cleaned plates on the drying rack with a fresh towel, she adds, “How ‘bout you and your family? Are you close with them?”

I hide my frown behind a fake smile and avoid her gaze. “Not exactly.”

“Oh?” I can hear the question in her voice. The way she doesn’t want to dig but is also curious enough to wait out the silence to see if I’ll give in to it.

Lips pursed, I grab another dirty plate from the side of the sink and scrub it as I explain, “I’m an only child. And my parents are great but a little…hands-off, I guess. I think they were excited to have their freedom again once I moved out.” I rinse the plate under the water, hand it to Mrs. Thorne, and grab another one, scrubbing it with a bit more elbow grease than the previous ones. “I see them around the holidays and stuff. But even if they lived close, I don’t think we’d have traditions like Sunday brunch or anything.”

The leftover syrup mixes with the soap bubbles as I dip the plate in the hot water, avoiding Mrs. Thorne––and her pity––at all costs.

“Well. I hope you know you’re always welcome here,” she returns.

I peek up at her and smile, even though I know she’s only being nice. I’m her son’s…whatever I am, for Pete’s sake. What else is she supposed to say?

“Thanks,” I reply. “I appreciate the invitation.”

“Always.”

After rinsing the plate under the faucet, I hand it to Mrs. Thorne, and she dries it in silence, lost in her head as the minutes tick by.

But I’m okay with it. The quiet. It’s comfortable, even. Nothing like anything I ever experienced with my parents, and the realization makes me sad, but I don’t focus on it.

Once I’m finished, I drain the dirty dishwater, wash my hands, and am turning off the sink when she stops me.

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