The Rivals - Dylan Allen Page 0,435

slows my speech.

My mother leans forward, her hand on her heart. “But I have.” Her big blue eyes are full of pleading. “I can show you. Or even do it for you so that you’re not too tuckered out to enjoy it all.” The grooves of worry that have lined her forehead since she walked into the kitchen, deepen.

I grit my teeth and turn back to the cutting board “I need to do it the right way.”

I feel her flinch and I’m instantly ashamed. I’m turning to apologize, a stab of pain in my hand sends the knife I was holding clattering to the counter.

“Shit!” I shove the bloody tip of my index finger between my lips and suck at the cut. I close my eyes, curse Eliza and my distracted mind, when tears spill down my cheeks.

“Crying won’t do you any good, Coco,” my mother admonishes from behind me.

I stiffen and wipe my cheeks with the backs of my hands. “I’m not crying.” I walk yank a drawer open and pull out a band aid out of my first aid kit.

“Let me do that for you.”

I shake my head and turn away from her, “I’m fine.” But the quaver in my voice betrays the words for the lie they are.

She takes the bandage from my hand and wordlessly dresses my injured finger. Then she lifts it to her mouth and kisses it. Her eyes close and she smiles, as if to herself as she shakes her head. “When you were little, you’d always hide your hurts from me.”

I grimace. “You knew?”

She nods, her eyes still closed, her lips drawn into a pained frown. “Of course. But, most days, I was fighting for my life and I was grateful you could take care of yourself. But now, I’m ashamed I let you.”

“I was fine, Mama.”

Her eyes fly open and they’re alight with the same fierce determination I’ve watched her show in the face of every challenge life has thrown her way.

“I’m your mother.” Those three words carry a myriad of meaning - meaning that I didn’t fully understand until I had the privilege of saying them myself. I can’t undo the past, but I’ve been working on untangling the knots that my less than ideal upbringing bound around parts of my soul. Starting with my tendency to turn into myself instead of reaching out when I need help.

“I didn’t mean what I said just now – about doing it the right way.” Unable to maintain eye contact with her, I scan my kitchen. The sparkling white quartz countertops that run the length of the room wall and the huge island in the center of the room are laden with mountains of pie ingredients, prep bowls, cutting boards and every cooking utensil ever known to man. Instead of the giddy anticipation I thought I’d be feeling today, I’m sick with nerves. “I’m sorry, Mama.”

“Hush now, baby.” She drapes an arm across my shoulders and pulls me into her side.

I nestle into the embrace and close my eyes. “I’m so glad you’re here,” I whisper.

“I’m glad you asked me to come. And I understand. It’s your first time hosting and you want it all just right.”

I nod and swallow down the slew of emotions are thickening my voice. “Christmas Eve was his family’s special day. I want it to be the way he remembers.”

She smiles patiently and tugs me back into her side. “I know that. And Hayes coulda’ married someone who knew how to set the table just like his mama used to. But he didn’t.”

“Don’t remind me,” I whine.

She huffs a laugh and jostles me. “You’re a silly goose.”

I pout and shake my head. “I’m serious. I want him to be happy and proud.”

“Honey, you could serve a pile of cow dung ashes and that man of yours would be proud. He would.” She adds when I open my mouth to protest. “You want tomorrow to be special? The only thing that could ruin it is if you’re too tired to enjoy it. I’ve been here for a week and you’ve got an army of people doing everything. This is the first time you actually need my help, please let me.”

I nod, gratefully.

“Good girl.” She gives me a final squeeze and lets me go. “I’m gonna get started on the dough for the crust. You finish chopping those apples and come join me so we can make it just the way you want, okay?”

I grab her hand to stop her