Pushing that thought aside, I put my mind toward making snowman-shaped pancakes while I listen to Stella chatter with Phant. I’m pretty sure she talks to the characters in the coloring book as well. I’m just pouring the first pancake when Bash comes down the stairs. He’s shrugging his sweatshirt back on as he comes into the kitchen. He stops and speaks with Stella for a few minutes, even coloring with her before he heads over to where I’m pouring my third attempt at a snowman.
Bash glances down at the plate where I’ve scooped the first couple attempts. “Why are your pancakes shaped like dicks?”
“They’re not,” I deny even though I had just been thinking about how closely they resembled dicks just a second ago. “Shut up.”
“Dude.” Bash pushes the plate a little closer to me. “Take a closer look. These are totally dicks. You got something you want to tell me?”
“They’re snowmen.”
He leans over, studying them a little closer, and then bursts into laughter. “They’re totally dicks. You aren’t planning to give these to Stella are you?”
“Fuck you,” I mutter quietly, glancing up to make sure Stella is still distracted and can’t hear me. Then, just to be safe, I glance down the hall to make sure Tristan isn’t coming through and could hear me.
“You better hope your girl doesn’t come down and see you’re feeding her kid dick-shaped pancakes.”
“I’d like to see you do better.”
“I’m not the moron who promised the kid something I couldn’t deliver.”
Yeah, I got suckered. We were halfway through the second round of the movie when she turned that flirty little smile on me, tilted her head just a little so those curls spilled over her tiny shoulders, widened her eyes at me, and asked me if I could make her Olaf pancakes. How in the hell was I supposed to say no to that?
“How’s Dylan?” I switch topics. “Did she get as violently ill as Tristan did this morning?”
“Nah, she was still snoring when I left the room.”
Tristan’s warning rings in my ears. I force myself to ask the question: “You didn’t…” I trail off as Bash’s face turns red.
“Do you honestly think I’d take advantage of a girl who is blackout drunk?”
“No, and that’s just what I told Tristan. She’s just worried because she thinks something’s up with Dylan and she doesn’t know what to do about it.”
Bash is leaning against the counter with a cup of coffee in his hands. He’s quiet for a few minutes, Stella’s babbling the only noise in the kitchen. He looks like he’s debating whether or not he wants to tell me something. I just wait him out, flipping dick-shaped pancakes, and I hate that he’s right that they look more like a dick than a snowman.
“She cried herself to sleep last night. I could chalk it up to drunk emotions, but it seemed like more. I doubt she’d want Tristan to know; she was mortified when she realized I was in the room, but I think your girl is right. There’s something going on there.” He drains the coffee before setting the mug in the sink. “I’ll see you at the farm later?”
“Yeah, we’ll be there. You know Mom would kick my as—butt,” I quickly correct myself. “If I didn’t show up for Thanksgiving dinner.” When I look up at him, he’s not even paying attention to me. His head is turned in the direction where Stella sits, but he isn’t focused on the little girl. He’s looking down the hall, toward the stairs, with a pensive look on his face.
I had told Tristan not to worry about Bash with Dylan, and I stood behind the statement. But just because Bash didn’t make a move on her last night when she was too drunk to be cognizant of any decision she was making, doesn’t mean he didn’t notice exactly how beautiful a woman Dylan is.
I saw the look on his face when the girls stumbled into the house last night. Bash had come to hang out with me after Stella had gone to bed. When Monroe had texted to let me know that they were on the way home, and that neither Dylan nor Tristan were approaching sober, I’d asked Bash to hang around in case I needed help maneuvering both girls into the house. They made it into the house on their own steam, albeit not in a straight line, but I needed his help to get them up the stairs. He volunteered to stay in the room with Dylan to watch out for her, and recognizing the look on his face, I didn’t argue the point. I’m pretty sure I had the same look on my face when I first saw Tristan standing in the doorway of Monroe’s kitchen.
Stella comes running over, demanding her pancakes, breaking Bash’s staring contest with the empty hallway.
He watches quietly as I make up a plate for Stella, who is properly impressed with my poor attempt, and thankfully thinks they look exactly like snowmen. Bash waits until Stella is situated back at the table before reaching over and snagging a pancake and shoving the whole thing in his mouth.
“Dude, you are so lucky Stella is here. There are so many things I could say to you right now.”
“Fuck you.” He mumbles the words around his mouth full of food, but I understand him perfectly. “The kid is cute,” he says when he finishes chewing. “And Tristan is sexy as all get out, cooks like a dream, and is funny, but is this really where you want to be? Watching cartoon movies with a three-year-old? Making poorly shaped pancakes at six in the morning, exhausted, but not because you were out hanging with the guys and maybe drinking a little too much the night before?” His eyes dart back down the hall again, and it’s on the tip of my tongue to bust his balls about it, but I hold back.
“Nowhere I’d rather be,” I say instead. “Last night was one of the best nights I’ve had in a long time. Cartoon princess and all.”
“Huh.” He shakes his head as if he can’t quite understand it. “I should get going. I’ll see you at the farm later?”
“You already asked me that.”
“I did? What was your answer?”
“That Mama still terrifies me so there’s no way in hell I’m missing Thanksgiving dinner.”
Chapter Eighteen
Tristan
In the days immediately following Thanksgiving, I watch Dylan and wait for her to bring up the miscarriage, her dancing career, or hell, anything at all really. She seems more focused on my relationship with Owen, or on which color Stella should paint her nails, or how many bubbles Huck can catch from the bubble machine, than anything of real substance.
Since I have no idea what to say to her, I follow her lead, and let her dissect my new life in minute detail as a distraction. If I can’t offer the same type of sage advice she always gives me, at least I can provide her a way to not think about all the shit she has going on in her life.
I think that technically makes me an enabler, but at the moment I’m good with that.
What words do you use when someone has lost a child? What sentence could I possibly string together that would make that pain ease? As a mother, one who hasn’t ever suffered through a miscarriage, I can’t fathom the different emotions that have to be swirling around inside of her. There is nothing I can do but be there when she needs me, so I offer my support by listening to her tell me what a dumbass I am for slamming on the brakes in my relationship with Owen.