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Which is a problem, because now I want him to.
Charly
In the morning, I wake up and find a plate concealed by a silver pot lid sitting on the kitchen counter beside a torn piece of paper:
For your chocolate fix. Don’t tell the other guests—theirs are plain.
I rip off the lid and uncover a stack of chocolate chip pancakes covered in a chocolate drizzle, sprinkled with strawberries and powdered sugar.
Butterflies swarm my stomach. Bryce made these. Forme. Because he listened when I told him I loved chocolate the first night I came here. I lean my elbows onto the counter, trying to remember the last time someone did something thoughtful for me. Sure, ex-boyfriends have brought me flowers on Valentine’s Day, or a gift I’d hinted about for Christmas. They paid for dinner. Yet no one took the time todosomething for me—create something—for the sole purpose of my enjoyment, without a reason.
Tears prick my eyes as I stare down at the pancakes, made for me with care by the hands of a practical stranger. Tears roll down my cheeks as I take the first bite, and I close my eyes, letting the salty drops fall. The sweet, fluffy dough mixes with the sweet flavor of chocolate, and I let out a groan.
“Best pancakes ever,” I say, as I shovel another forkful into my mouth.
I took care of my mother, long before the cancer struck. It felt like a responsibility, to make sure she was okay after Dad left. And I never let anyone take care of me. A sob escapes me, and I cover my face with my hands, succumbing to the overwhelming wave of grief. I let go of everything I’ve been holding onto, and I cry. I cry for Mom. I cry for myself. And a small part of me cries for my father, because he missed out on having a loving family.
I don’t like to cry in front of anyone. Not because it makes me appear weak, but because I hate making another person feel uncomfortable or awkward. No one ever seems to know what to do. They either tell you to stop crying, or they stare at you like a deer in headlights—that was Greg. He’d shove a tissue box in my lap, and back away from me until I stopped. Even Jenny cracks jokes to get me to stop crying. So, I’ve learned to cry in private.
Which is why my stomach freefalls to the kitchen floor when the front door swings open, and Bryce steps inside.
Frantic, I wipe my face with the backs of my hands. “H-hey. Hi. Good morning.”
His hand remains frozen on the doorknob, his eyebrows dipping down even farther than usual. “What’s wrong?”
I sniffle and wave a hand, turning my face away. “Nothing. I’m fine.”
Heavy footsteps move across the wooden floor, and then I’m faced with a broad chest. Bryce tips my chin, bringing my gaze to his. “Are you hurt?”
My lips wobble, and I shake my head. “It’s nothing, really. I was eating the pancakes and—”
“Did you not like them?”
A laugh ripples out of me. “No, I loved them. That’s why I started crying.”
“My pancakes made you cry?”
“In a way, yes.” I inhale a deep breath. “It’s just ... I can’t believe you did that for me. I said I liked chocolate, and then you put chocolate chips in my pancakes. You paid attention to me. You got up this morning, and thought of me. You … you cared enough to go through the trouble of doing that.”
His lips pull downward as his eyes search mine for understanding.
“Thank you for that.” Without thinking, I slide my hands around his waist, my fingertips barely touching behind his back like I’m hugging a thick tree trunk. I breathe in a lungful of Bryce—a mix of cedar and sweet pancake batter.
Then, his arms wrap around me, and he pulls me against his chest. I squeeze my eyes shut, and another couple of tears slip out, absorbing into his T-shirt. I relax into him, and he rests his chin on the top of my head, holding me tight.
It’s been so long since I’ve been held. Since I’ve wanted to be held.
“I wouldn’t have made them for you if I knew they’d make you cry,” he rasps.
“I needed that cry, so I’m glad you did.”
Like I needed this hug.
I squeeze him tighter, my fingers digging into the hard muscles in his back. He lifts his huge palm and presses it against the back of my head, letting me know he’s not going to let go until I’m ready.
But I don’t want to overstay my welcome. After a few more moments, I loosen my grip, and his arms drop. My body misses his warmth instantly.
“Well, it’s good to start your morning off with an embarrassingly awkward moment, I always say.”
