Page 121 of One Night with Number Nineteen

Guilt slices deep. “I know, Mom. I’ve really been running on all cylinders, especially with this shit with Lainey.”

“Oh, no. Did you two break up? I really liked her and Ollie. They seem sweet.”

“No, it’s not that. Things are…” The throb in my temple comes back with a vengeance. “Things are fine, but she’s dealing with a lot, and I’m trying to be there to help her. But between that and hockey and the charity stuff and the holidays and you—” I shake my head. “Never mind,” I say softly. “What’d you need to talk about?”

Her eyes hold mine for a long moment and then she steps close to me, cups my face in her hands. “My baby boy. Always carrying too much on his shoulders.” Her hands fall away, gaze drifting to the side, voice dropping. “I suppose I haven’t exactly helped with that.”

I frown. “Mom⁠—”

Her shoulders snap straight and she bustles into the kitchen, hurrying over to the counter. “I made these.” She picks up a container, hands it to me.

The smell of cinnamon intensifies and I look down, stomach twisting.

“I don’t think they’re quite perfect,” she whispers, picking up one and taking a bite. “But I think they’re pretty damned close,” she says once she chews and swallows then nods toward the container. “Try one?”

The last thing I want right now is a fucking cookie.

But I pick one up and take a bite anyway.

Cinnamon hits my tongue, followed by sugar and spice and…

“Nutmeg?”

She nods softly. “I think that’s what was missing.” She nibbles at the edge of the cookie. “But I don’t think I have the measurements right.”

I take another bite, the flavor hitting my tongue, filling my senses, jarring loose old memories.

Of times like this. Of moments where things weren’t quite so messed up.

“Baby?” she asks tremulously.

My heart squeezes. “I think you’re close, Mom.”

Her eyes light up, her smile practically splits her face…and that’s like my mom of old too.

Heart leaping, hope growing.

Because maybe she’s close to that.

Close to coming back.

Close to not needing me so much.

Close to the mom I used to know.

Thirty-Eight

Lainey

“Mom! Look!” I glance up from my laptop with a forced smile, putting my mental finger on the page to keep my spot.

“Wow, bud,” I tell him. “That’s awesome.”

What’s not awesome is having to put together a synopsis for a book I don’t want to write along with three chapters, again for a book I don’t want to write.

Oh, it’ll be fun when I actually get down to it.

The problem is that I don’t want to be thinking about anything except for The Book That Shall Not Be Written (But Is Being Written Anyway).