My Soul To Keep (Soul Series Book 1) (22 page)

THE SUN IS HIGH AND BRIGHT,
but today feels like the dark side of the moon. The world is upside down with the sky overhead like a perfectly blue, serene sea, while the ground beneath me rolls and wobbles like tumultuous waves. I’m not sure how I’ll stay on my feet through this gorgeous California day, my first Thanksgiving here.

Aunt Ruthie has called me twice already. Maybe I should have figured out a way to get home so we could huddle together and comfort each other, but even scraping together enough money to fly home for Christmas is a stretch. If I can’t be with Aunt Ruthie, at least I’ll be surrounded by friends at Grady’s.

I know “friend” is Rhyson’s least favorite “F” word, but he has been that to me consistently, even after our argument. I woke up the next morning to a quote from

Talladega Nights
waiting on my phone.

“‘
I wake up in the morning and piss excellence.’”

I’d been too relieved that we could status quo for a little longer to dwell on what we’ll have to figure out very soon.

“You good in here?” San asks from the kitchen doorway. “Need help getting anything to the car?”

“Yeah.” I grab a mitt to pull a pan from the oven. “We need to load the pumpkin pies, yams, and this stuffing.”

I set the large pan on the stove and stir the gravy I left simmering.

“Oh! And biscuits.” Steam rises from the basket of biscuits I pass to him. “It’s a short drive to Grady’s, but I can pop them in the oven to warm if I need to once we get there.”

“Everything looks good.” San scoops up the pies and heads back out, but gives me one last look before he goes. “Especially you. You’ll have to fight Rhyson off with a stick.”

I fake exasperation—a quick eye roll should do it—but my heart, Benedict Arnold that it is, skips a few beats wondering if Rhyson
will
think I look good. I took time with my appearance, which I don’t often do. Most of the time Rhyson sees me at the end of a shift, with my hair limp, makeup gone, and wearing the jeans and T-shirt I don’t mind getting dirty.

Today’s a little different. For starters, I’m wearing a dress. It’s a peach shift, shapeless except for the hints of my curves underneath. It hits mid-thigh and has quarter-length sleeves. I’ve chosen simple peach- and mint-green leather flats since I’ll be on my feet a lot today helping Emmy. I give myself one more glance in the mirror, studying the dark eye shadow and nude lips before adding simple gold earrings and a necklace Grammy left me. I’ve piled and pinned my hair on top of my head, leaving just a few tendrils escaping the confines of my hair pins. Will he think I’m pretty? I know . . . why should I care when I won’t do anything about it even if he does?

But will he?

By the time we arrive at Grady’s, my stomach feels about as wobbly as the cranberry sauce I almost forgot to bring. Rhyson’s SUV is already out front. I assume Bristol will be here too. His sister and I didn’t exactly bond at Jimmi Dawson’s birthday party, and I’m hoping we get to know each other a little better today.

Emmy greets us at the door like a perfect hostess, her cornflower blue eyes are bright and welcoming, and her blonde hair pulled back in an elegant chignon. It’s only a matter of time before Grady pops the question. Rhyson and I have bets . . . and hopes . . . on a Christmas engagement.

“This all smells so good, Kai.” She takes a pumpkin pie from me and heads toward the kitchen. “Come on in and we’ll get everything settled. Rhys and Grady are in the studio, of course. Bristol is out by the pool on the phone. Thank you for helping with dinner.”

“No problem,” I say. “I loved it. I cooked all the time growing up. My mom owned a diner, and we cooked around the clock on holidays. So days like today, I really miss it.”

San brings in the rest of the dishes, and Emmy and I sort out what we have. Green beans, a salad, her turkey, which smells delicious and only needs carving.

“Thanks so much for doing the stuffing.” Emmy laughs while tossing the salad. “Mine is always so dry. I just can’t get it right.”

“I use my Grammy’s recipe. I haven’t made it since . . .” I made it last Thanksgiving. Mama had been just months from passing. Knowing it would be our last one with her hung a cloud over the holidays.

“Hey, you.” Rhyson walks in the kitchen, distracting me from my sad memories. He smiles at Emmy as she takes the salad through to the dining room, but walks over to me, tipping up my chin and studying my face. “You okay?”

“Yeah.” I give him a bright smile, but when he doesn’t smile back, I know I haven’t fooled him. “Starving. We’re close though. Just a few more things before we’ll be ready to eat.”

“Sure you’re okay?” He frowns, brushing his thumb over my cheekbone.

“I’m fine.” His concern only fans the emotion higher, sinking my voice to a whisper. “For real.”

“It’s okay if you’re not.” He captures my hand, twisting our fingers together. “Come on, Pep. Talk to me.”

I wish I could barricade myself from the probing care of his eyes. Stuffing these feelings, functioning on autopilot, and living on mute has become a habit since Mama died. It’s so hard to do that with Rhyson. He demands so much and knows when I’m holding back.

“I’m having a hard time. It’s my first Thanksgiving without my mom.”

He wraps his hand around my neck, dipping his head to catch my eyes.

“I’m sorry. What can I do?”

Even though emotion rises like the tide, filling my eyes and burning my throat, I manage a smile.

“You’re already doing it.”

The kitchen falls silent as we consider each other. He’s tamed his hair today . . . at least for now. His rebellious hair, collapsing around his face every few minutes, is one of my favorite things. He’s broad and strong in the black shirt that strains against the lean muscles of his shoulders. He looks so good, and I’m so weak today. That’s not the best combination.

Emmy comes back in smiling, her eyes speculating about what’s going on between us, and grabs a few more dishes.

“I think we’re just about ready to eat.”

When we enter the dining room, Bristol has one hand poised over my biscuits. Maybe my way to her heart will run through her belly.

“Hi, Bristol.” I set the dishes on the table and settle into a seat between San and Rhyson. “Good to see you again.”

She gives me a stiff smile, but looks at San like she wants him as a side dish.

“And who’s this?” Her smile is the same one I’ve seen Rhyson use in interviews and public appearances, beautiful and practiced. Aware of the charisma it carries and how it will affect everyone else. “I’m Bristol, Rhyson’s sister.”

“San.” He smiles in return, but holds back. I wish I hadn’t told him Bristol’s not my biggest fan. San’s as loyal as a German Shepherd. “Kai’s best friend.”

“Oh.” Her eyes drift back to me for a quick second. “How long have you two known each other?”

“Since we were seven.” He unfolds the linen napkin over his lap and angles a smile at me. “My dad was in the military, and when my mom passed, I went to live with my grandmother in Glory Falls. That’s where I met Kai.”

“Glory Falls?” Bristol puckers her perfectly arched eyebrows. “Where is that exactly?”

“Georgia.” I pass the tray of turkey to Rhyson on my left. “This turkey smells so good, Emmy.”

“Thank you again, Kai, for helping with dinner.” Emmy smiles at Grady. “This one sure wasn’t going to be any help.”

“Never claimed to be good in the kitchen,” Grady says with a laugh.

“I just got off the phone with Mother.” Bristol casts a cautious glance in Rhyson’s direction. The fork pauses on its way to his mouth, but there is no other indication that her comment bothers him. “She has quite the spread today too.”

“Bertie’s doing, I’m sure,” Grady says with a wry smile. “I’ve never known Angela to cook very much.”

“Maybe she’ll cook at Christmas.” Bristol turns her full attention to Rhyson. “Have you thought any more about coming home?”

Rhyson doesn’t stop chewing, but he raises irritated eyes to his sister.

“Not now, Bris.”

“It would mean so much to them,” she says in a rush.

“Let’s talk about it later.” Rhyson doesn’t look up from his plate. “These yams are really good, Kai. Can you believe I’ve never had them before?”

“Forget the yams,” Bristol snaps, her good humor evaporating. “I don’t understand why you won’t even consider coming home.”

“You wouldn’t, Bris.” Rhyson tosses his fork to the plate, and it clatters in the sudden silence. “They didn’t drag you through months of a court battle.”

“You dragged
them
to court.”

“To escape the life they forced on me,” Rhyson fires back. “You have no idea—”

“I was there too, Rhyson.” Bristol cuts in, her grey eyes angry slits. “You weren’t the only one hurt all those years ago. Our whole family needs to heal, don’t you think? That’s why Uncle Grady has agreed to come for Christmas.”

Rhyson does a double take, his eyes locking on his uncle.

“That true, Grady? You’re going to New York for Christmas?”

“Well, yes.” Grady sits back in his seat, holding Emmy’s hand on the table. “Your mother and father want to meet Emmy.”

Rhyson sucks his teeth and rolls his eyes.

“No, they don’t.” He tosses his napkin to land beside his plate. “There’s another motive, believe me. They’re using you to lure me back there.”

“It’s always about you, isn’t it, Rhys?” Bristol’s words come through clenched teeth. “It can’t just be that they want us to be a family again?”

“No, Bristol, it can’t because that’s not who they
are
. And I never wanted it all about me. They were the ones who cared more about profit than their own son’s well-being.”

“You certainly weren’t concerned about anyone’s well-being but yours, were you?” Bristol crosses her arms over her chest. “You took their livelihood when you left.”

“If I hadn’t left, there wouldn’t have
been
a livelihood, Bris. I was on the verge of collapsing, or have you conveniently forgotten that?”

“Oh, I haven’t forgotten anything. Not how they sacrificed all our lives so you could do what you wanted to do.”

“No,
now
I’m doing what I wanted to do. I was doing what
they
wanted me to do, and it was killing me.”

“Killing you? Dramatic much?”

“You’re just as toxic as they are, Bris. Sometimes I wonder why I even—”

“That’s enough.” Grady’s voice cuts over theirs, authority squashing the vitriol between the siblings. “Both of you. Don’t ruin everyone’s Thanksgiving with your bickering.”

Bristol and Rhyson don’t look away from each other for long seconds. Rhyson pushes one hand through his hair, like I knew he would eventually, disrupting it beautifully.

“I’m sorry, everybody.” He looks around the table until his eyes settle on me. “I hope we didn’t mess things up.”

I shake my head and offer a small smile to reassure him. Still, their anger chokes the air around us. I can’t help but contrast this dinner to the holidays growing up at home. How special it always was. Even when Grammy and Pops passed, and after Daddy left for good, Mama made Thanksgiving and Christmas magical for us. It hurts my heart that Rhyson never had that.

The conversation and eating resume all around me, but I find myself lost in memories of the past. The simple traditions Mama held onto that were so much a part of this season. Rhyson touches my hand in my lap, asking with a lift of his brows if I’m okay. I nod, but I’m not sure anymore.

“I need your recipe for these biscuits, Kai.” Emmy smiles with a biscuit on its way to her mouth. “They’re the best I’ve ever tasted.”

“They’re my Mama’s recipe.” Even with my heart heavy, I have to smile. “She and I would make biscuits every Thanksgiving morning. The pumpkin pies are her recipe, too. She loved to cook.”

“You didn’t want to spend Thanksgiving with your own family there in . . . what was it? Glory Falls?” Bristol’s voice makes it obvious that she wishes I had. What have I
done
to this girl? Before I can answer, Rhyson responds. Sharply.

“Kai’s mother passed away a few months ago, Bristol.” His tone holds a warning that he’s ready to break their temporary peace if she missteps.

Bristol’s frown fades and her remorseful eyes meet mine.

“I’m sorry, Kai,” she says softly. “I didn’t know.”

“It’s okay.” I bite my lip because I’m not sure my voice will remain steady. “I . . . she loved the holidays. I made her favorite today to go with dessert. Mint apple cider.”

“And we’d always put up the Christmas tree Thanksgiving night,” San says, his voice low and sober.

When death hits so close, so close it abrades your soul, there sometimes isn’t room or thought for what anyone else loses. I forgot that San was always at Mama’s table for Sunday dinners. She cheered the loudest at his baseball games. He was a pallbearer at her funeral. He lost her too. It’s not just my first Thanksgiving without Mama. It’s his too.

It hits me all at once. I made a batch of mint apple cider. I got up early and made Mama’s biscuits from scratch. My pumpkin pie will taste almost just like hers, but we didn’t say grace before we ate. We won’t visit a shelter together tonight to serve a meal to the homeless. She won’t keep me up decorating the tree before we can finally go to bed. There was only one Mama, and the world has lost her, but it keeps turning. But for me, I live in that void where her love and her voice and her kindness used to be. And in so many ways, even moving forward, I’m standing still.