Page 16 of Don't Say You're Sorry
“Frankie, stop,” I say just as quietly. “It was nothing, okay?He’snothing.”
“No, he’s not,” she whispers.
I told her some things once. Things I wish I could un-tell her now, if only to wipe that look off her face. She looks angry.Not with me, but on my behalf, her nose flaring as she curls her fingers around her cup.
The thought that she might be imagining wrapping those fingers around Adam’s neck has me huffing out a laugh.
Wrapping my free arm around her shoulders, I press my head to her temple and repeat, “He’s nothing.”
She turns to me, and I hold her gaze.Let me have this. Let me fake it. Please.
Her brows knit before she looks away, leaning into the crook of my arm as she finishes her coffee.
As I finish eating, I wonder if Adam’s eaten this morning, and kick myself for it.
“You still care.”
If only he knew how much I still fucking care, even after all these years.
“Easton,” my stepmother says, smiling, as I walk into the kitchen where she’s working on her laptop. She stands and wraps her arms around me. “Are you staying for Sunday dinner? It’s your dad’s turn to cook the roast this week.”
Over her head, I take in the food and dishes scattered across the counters. My dad’s a messy cook, which has always struck me as odd considering how controlled he is in every other part of his life. Then again, he didn’t cook much before Veronica. We used to have staff for that—until she moved in and insisted we didn’t need help.
The first time he tried making breakfast—determined not to let her do everything—he nearly burned the house down. Watching my dad, of all people, bend over backward to make herhappy was hilarious. He’s improved since then. Still not great, but better.
Every Sunday since we became a family ten years ago, he and Veronica have taken turns cooking. They’ve kept the tradition alive, even now that it’s just the two of them. She invites me every week. I usually say no.
Not just because this house is filled with Adam’s ghost—but because being here reminds me how much I still miss him. And I hate missing him.
“Thanks, but I already have plans,” I say, releasing her. “Where is Dad?”
“He had to run to the shop. He forgot the potatoes.”
I chuckle, attempting to act casual. “And Adam?”
“He’s staying at a hotel.” Turning, she heads toward the kettle. “Guess he wanted some privacy.”
Guess he didn’t want to sleep in the room I used to fuck him in.
“Tea?” Veronica asks.
Glancing at her laptop, I throw a thumb over my shoulder. “I can go if you’re working.”
“No, it’s okay.” She waves me off. “I’m not working. I was just looking through the photos from last night. There are some nice ones of you and Frankie. Want to see?”
“Sure.”
I pull up a chair, and she joins me a few moments later, setting a steaming hot cup of tea in front of me. She scrolls to the top of the page, and we look through the photos together. There are a lot of them. I don’t know much about photography, but I’m pretty sure the photographer must have been up all night if they managed to edit these in less than twenty-four hours.
“Who’s the photographer?” I ask. “They work fast.”
“My friend Sophie’s daughter. She’s studying photography at Hawthorne, so I offered her the job for experience. She’s good, isn’t she?”
I nod, smiling at one of the pictures of Veronica and my dad. It’s a candid shot. Her arms are around his neck, his hands on her waist, and their faces close. She’s laughing at whatever he’s saying.
“I like that one,” I say.
“Yeah?”
