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I hadn’t consciously thought about it until now, but ever since I’d come back into his life, memories of our time together had been slipping back into my mind. Little things, like the way he’d always drink his coffee black, the way he’d stare off in the distance when he was deep in thought, and his absolute love for chocolate cream pie.
Back then, I used to make it for him whenever he had a rough day, and seeing this recipe now… it felt like a sign. Or maybe I was just more sentimental than I wanted to admit.
“Alright,” Bristol said, pulling me out of my thoughts. “Let’s get started!”
She began gathering ingredients from the pantry while I pulled out the bowls and measuring cups from the cupboard she said they were in. We worked together in a comfortable rhythm, her guiding me as I moved through the steps.
“Okay, first things first,” she said. “We need to make the crust. You want to do a graham cracker crust, or do you want a regular pie crust?”
I raised an eyebrow. “Graham cracker.”
Bristol smiled approvingly and handed me a rolling pin. “That’s what I was hoping you would say. Crush those graham crackers, and we’ll mix them with butter and sugar. I’ll get started on the filling.”
I set to work crushing the crackers, letting the repetitive motion ease some of my tension. It was messy, but it felt good to focus on something other than everything else swirling around in my head.
As we worked, Bristol kept up a steady stream of conversation, mostly light stuff—nothing too heavy. It was nice. She asked me about life in South Carolina, about some of the places I used to visit, and even shared stories about the Devil’s Knights Motorcycle Club that her husband was a part of. It was easygoing, and I appreciated how she avoided touching on the more serious stuff.
“Alright,” Bristol said after a while, “I’ve got the filling mixed and ready to go. How’s that crust coming along?”
I looked down at the bowl of crushed graham crackers. “I think it’s ready?” They were crushed to oblivion with the sugar and butter. Maybe it was the talking and just not thinking about everything going on right now was what I needed.
She took a peek and nodded. “Looks good. Let’s press it into the pie dish.”
We pressed the mixture into the dish together, and then Bristol poured the rich, chocolatey filling over it. It smelled incredible, and for the first time all day, I felt a little lighter. Maybe this baking thing reallywastherapeutic.
Once the pie was set and in the oven, we moved on to the whipped topping. Bristol made me do most of the work, which was fine. I found that whipping cream by hand was a surprisingly good way to burn off nervous energy.
“You know,” Bristol said as I whipped the cream, “Leo’s going to love this.”
I glanced at her, surprised she’d made the connection. “You think so?”
She raised an eyebrow, her tone teasing. “Oh, come on, Brynn. You didn’t pick chocolate cream pie out of thin air. Everyone here knows that’s his favorite.”
I sighed, realizing there was no use pretending otherwise. “Yeah, I guess I did pick it for him.”
Bristol smiled knowingly but didn’t push further. Instead, she handed me the spoon to taste the whipped cream. “What do you think? Chocolatey enough?”
I tasted it, the rich flavor coating my tongue. “Perfect.”
“Alright then, let’s get the whipped cream in the fridge, and the pie should be out of the oven soon.”
We cleaned up the kitchen together while the chocolate base cooled, the smell of chocolate still lingering in the air. I couldn’t help but think about Leo—what he’d say when he saw the pie, if he’d be surprised that I remembered it was his favorite.
“Bristol!”
Bristol cocked her head to the side at the familiar voice coming from the hallway. “Meg?” she called back, her eyes lighting up.
I wiped my hands on the dish towel and leaned against the kitchen island, curious. “Who’s Meg?” I asked.
Bristol’s smile widened. “A tornado of fun,” she said with a chuckle, her tone affectionate.
Before I could ask more, Meg appeared in the doorway with a man in a leather motorcycle vest trailing behind her. I wasn’t sure what I had been expecting, but it definitely wasn’tthis.
Meg was older, maybe in her early sixties, but she had an energy that was almost electric. Her dark purple hair was piled on top of her head in a messy bun, with a few rebellious strands escaping down the sides. She was wearing skinny jeans—rippedskinny jeans at the knees, no less—and a gray sweatshirt thatproudly declared,You don’t have to be crazy to camp with us, we will train you. I couldn’t help but grin at the sight. She looked like she had a story for every rip in her jeans and every laugh line on her face.
“You guys get more security with this whole Candace thing?” Meg asked, walking into the kitchen like she owned the place, which, judging by the confidence in her step, she might as well have. “You got a goliath at the door who said his name was Clyde, which, by the way, is a very fitting name. He’s like a Clydesdale horse.”
The man behind her, on the other hand, was a different kind of energy entirely. He was tall, broad-shouldered, and had the classic bad-boy look down to a science. His motorcycle vest was patched with various insignias, but it was the look in his eyes—sharp, observant—that told me he wasn’t just here for the show. He had short, graying dark hair, a strong jawline dusted with stubble, and an easy kind of swagger that screamed “trouble” in the best way possible.
