At Whit's End (Wells Ranch, #4)(47)
I pick up one of the containers, attempting to make out the contents through opaque plastic. “I bet it’s amazing.”
“My dad says the real reason it’s called Italian wedding soup is because it’s the whole reason he married my mom in the first place.”
“Sold. Soup for breakfast, it is.”
Soon I’m mindlessly heating a pot of soup on the stove, watching Colt mess with the colorful alphabet magnets on my fridge. These days Jonas strictly uses them to spell out cuss words, but I can’t bring myself to throw them in the garbage because I remember sitting in front of this fridge showing him how to spell our names so many years ago.
“You better keep this on your fridge forever.” He holds his hands over his masterpiece, prepared for a grand reveal. The way he’s staring me down is impatient at best.
Setting my spoon down on the counter, I move to stand beside him. I’ve encountered enough DICKs and SHITs and even one FUCK on this fridge. At this point, I ignore them unless I’m expecting company. Nothing is going to rock me, regardless of how immature it is.
He lifts his left hand to reveal the words Whit Is Pretty.
“Yeah, sure. What’s under the other one?” I raise an eyebrow, tapping my index finger against his right hand, which is still plastered to the stainless fridge. I have remarkably good insight into the minds of preteen boys—and grown men aren’t much different when you get to the heart of it.
The corner of his mouth ticks upward, and he slowly lowers his arm. Whit Is Pretty Good at SCUBA.
I groan. “Oh my God. You’re never letting that go, are you? You’re obnoxious.”
“So I’ve been told.” The corner of his lip pulls between his teeth. “Okay, okay. I’ll play nice today since you’re already going through it.”
Removing all but the first three words, he straightens back up and a forced exhale blows from his nose. It feels a lot like a confession. Confirms what I think I know about the way he looks at me, and the pull I feel whenever he’s around.
“I’m not sure either is true, especially right now….” I look down at my sweatpants and oversized shirt. “But thank you.”
“It’s the truth.” His Adam’s apple bobs, and on a wisp of a breath, I swear I hear him utter, “So fuckin’ pretty.”
His words fracture through me. Rocking back on my heels, I grab the counter to steady myself. Thankfully, the soup’s reached a low simmer, so I have something to distract my hands and my mind and, in a moment, my mouth. Which is great news because I might end up kissing him otherwise.
Each carrying a bowl of his mom’s famous soup, we settle onto opposite ends of the couch. With bated breath, Colt waits for my reaction, phone in hand so he can let his mom know my thoughts. Which doesn’t add pressure to the situation at all.
The moment the hot metal spoon hits my tongue, depositing so many flavors I don’t know where to begin naming them, I understand why the soup made Colt’s dad fall in love. I swallow in increments, only one bite in and already desperate to savor every morsel of this.
“Oh my God.” I sink deeper into the couch, stretching out my legs across the vacant middle cushion. “Tell your mom I want to marry her, too.”
He brings a spoonful to his mouth, already more than half done with his bowl, and taps quickly at his phone screen.
“Told her you’ve considered this her formal proposal of marriage, but she regrets to inform you she isn’t single or into women.”
“Well, damn it.” Somehow the second spoonful might be even better than the first. “That’s a real bummer. I could get used to eating this at least once a week for the rest of my life.”
His empty ceramic bowl clunks down on the coffee table, and when he settles back into his spot, his hand falls naturally to hold my foot. I think I might be delirious from lack of sleep, because I make no move to retreat.
“You’re in luck,” he says. “Consider me your official soup dealer. I also have an in for sourdough bread, chicken cutlets, and apple pie.”
“I’ll take all of it, please. My mom was a teacher, and each fall she led an apple pie fundraiser for the elementary school. A whole group of students and parents would spend an entire weekend making an insane number of pies.”
I lose my mom over and over, day after day. I lose her when I least expect it—like now, with the sudden realization that we won’t have pie this fall. I’m in a state of constant, perpetual mourning for a person who is still very much alive.
Colt’s thumb presses firm, yet comforting, against the ball of my foot. “You’d think you’d be sick of apple pies by now.”
“Oh, I definitely went through a period of hating them when I was part of the team that had to peel hundreds of apples.” The reminiscence flutters in my chest. If one good thing has come from Mom’s diagnosis, it’s that I cherish the rarely recalled memories. One day they’ll be the first to go. “But now…it’s a fond memory.”
He nods with a knowing expression, scraping his palm across his short beard. “I’m really sorry about your mom, by the way.”
“Thanks,” I whisper. “It’s…hard.”
My mom and I might not be incredibly close. We did more than simply butt heads when I was a teenager, and as an adult I haven’t always loved that she gives her unsolicited opinions on every choice I make. I also might’ve been jealous of the way she loved my older sister. But that doesn’t make losing her any easier.