Page 50 of Echoes in the Storm
“I’ve got to do it—face my fears,” I say, turning back to face her. “Like you said, we can’t keep living like this.”
“No, we can’t. But like I also said,” she says, “we have to change our habits one step at a time.”
I don’t answer her, my focus on the dark fence line, the trees, and the parts of the yard that are blackest of all. Somewhere out there is danger. Somewhere out there is the ghost of my past waiting to be banished for good.
“I’m reverting back to the original idea of pancakes,” Cam states. “With maple syrup.”
Now isn’t the time to do this, Duke.“Jam,” I answer. “Do you have jam?”
She giggles, handing me my phone and tugging me toward the house. “Jam is for pikelets, silly.”
“Is a pancake not an over-sized pikelet?”
She lifts her eyebrow as her mouth twists in thought. “I suppose you’re right.”
I gesture for her to go inside first as I switch the torch off and pocket my shame for later. “Thank you.”
Cam glances back over her shoulder as we make our way up the hall. “For what?”
“Not making fun of me.”
“Why on earth would I do that?” Cam says as she busies herself pulling ingredients from the pantry.
I retrieve a mixing bowl and whisk, heading to the fridge for milk. “A guy my size, my age, scared of the dark?” I snort. “Don’t tell me you didn’t laugh a little on the inside. You were probably disgusted you let a wimp like me touch you.”
“Nope.” She measures flour and then baking powder as I try to figure her out. “I might have felt sorry for you when I worked out why you flipped like that, but I don’t pity you.”
“Why not?” Isn’t that human instinct? To pity those weaker than yourself?
“Because, Duke, pity is what you feel when someone is pathetic and unable to help themselves. You’re neither of those things.”
“You barely know me,” I say setting the milk down and leaning a hip into the counter.
“I know enough to let you touch me.” She taunts me with my own words as she adds the final ingredients to her bowl and then whisks it into a smooth batter.
I hold my position as she moves around me, warming the skillet and pouring the first pancake in to cook. Her focus is on the batter as it bubbles, but the look in her eye says she’s about as mentally present in this room as I am.
Less than a week, and this woman has managed to steamroll a path through my bullshit to rip the core of my issues wide open. I can’t change, can’t fix myself if I continue to hide the worst of me and pretend I’m doing okay.
I’m not okay. I’m a fucking mess, and while I clearly acknowledge that, I also keep those around me at a protective arm’s length. My mum? Shit, she’s done nothing but stand by my side, and what have I done for her in return? Become as much of an emotionally shut-off arsehole as my old man.
All in the name of “saving face”. What good is it, though, upholding this ridiculous ideal that real men don’t cry if inside it’s breaking me apart and turning me into a bitter man who’s on a fast track to a life lived alone in a forest cabin, spitting at anyone who dares step foot on his property?
I’ve got to let her in, show her my weaknesses knowing that she’s so far proven to be the kind of person who won’t take advantage of them. I’ve got to try and make this work between us. I have to let go in order to hold on.
“You’ve got your show tomorrow, yeah?”
Cam looks up from plating another fluffy pancake on the stack, and shakes her head. “No, Thursday. Tomorrow I’m doing a fundraising event, remember? That’s why we’re supposed to be eating healthy, because I won’t have much time for dinner between leaving work and getting there.” She snorts a supressed laugh.
“Can I come?”
Her eyebrows lift as she carefully answers, “If you want to. I mean, I didn’t think that would be your thing, but if you’re sure. I could probably put you to good use. They always need people to help corral the kids when they get overexcited and out of hand.”
“Kids?”
“Kids.” A soft smile spreads across her lips. “It’s the annual disco at the kindergarten.”
“Kidsanddancing?” Kill me now …”