My hands form fists. She was crying, probably for a long time if she’s trying to cover up bags under her eyes. Who upset her? I bet it was some loser who doesn’t deserve her. I’ll kick his ass.
She steps out of the Jeep, wearing a red down jacket over jeans and black boots. Her dark brown hair flies around her face in the wind. She pushes her hair back in place as she approaches the front door, muttering to herself.
I wait for her to ring the bell. She has a habit of talking to herself when she’s working through something.
I wait and wait, but she doesn’t ring it. I scoop up Snowball and open the front door just as Kayla’s turned to go back to her Jeep.
“Kayla! Where are you going?”
She freezes, her back to me, but I can tell she’s wiping tears off her cheeks. I’m very familiar with sisterly tears. Also, high-pitched squeals and laughter bordering on the insane. That is, when the three of them are together. It’s a wonder I still have my hearing.
I blow out a breath of exasperation because she still hasn’t moved, her back to me. “I know you’re crying, so you don’t have to put on a happy face. Get in here, runt.” Youngest, smallest, of course I call her runt.
She turns, her face crumbling. “Oh, Wyatt.”
I move swiftly, my bare feet stinging with the cold of the snow, wrapping my arm around her shoulders and guiding her inside. “Don’t worry. I’ve got tamales.”
She laughs through her tears, and we head inside together.
Never let it be said that tamales can’t fix everything. Bad investment? Tamales. Squashed your pinky toe? Tamales. Broken heart? Tamales. I’ve dealt with the first two before in the tamale way, and I suspect Kayla is dealing with that last one. As far as I know, everything is going well with her graduate studies, and she’s living at home to save money, so it’s not any kind of professional or financial issue.
She sets her fork down after her second tamale, finishes her milk, and gives me a small smile. “I didn’t realize how hungry I was until I smelled these delicious tamales. Did you make them?”
“Ha. No. You know I’m not a big cook.”
She lifts one shoulder. “I figured maybe you had time on your hands now that you’re retired.”
“It was the mailman.”
She blinks her big brown eyes. “Really?”
“Yeah. So what’s up?”
She gathers our dishes, avoiding my eyes. “Nothing much.”
“Uh-huh.”
She takes them to the sink, runs water over them, and sets them in the dishwasher.
I tip my wooden chair back, balancing on two legs. “Would you like to tell me why you’ve been crying for days?”
She bows her head for a moment before turning to face me. “It hasn’t been days.”
“Tell that to your face.”
She shakes her head, walks over, and gives my face a shove. My chair nearly topples back. I right the chair, grabbing her arm for balance.
“You nearly put me out of commission!” I bark.
She sits next to me again. “Mom always told you not to lean back in your chair or you’ll fall backwards.”
“My house. My chair. My choice to risk my ass on the floor. Besides, you shoved me.”
She sighs.
That’s a precursor to a flood of words, so I let it ride, telling myself to savor the calm before the storm.
She stares at the table, using her index finger to push a small tamale crumb around. Snowball perks up, hoping for a scrap, and comes out from under the table to sit by Kayla.
“Hello, Snowball,” she coos, scooping her up and snuggling into her soft fur. Snowball lifts her head, sniffing Kayla’s face for tamale, and licks her cheek. She holds her close and finally drops the bomb. “I was supposed to get married last night. It was going to be so romantic on New Year’s Eve, start the New Year with a beautiful bang, and then he never showed up.” Her voice chokes at the end.
I right my chair, anger and hurt warring inside me. I keep my voice calm. “Why didn’t you tell me you were getting married?” I’m supposed to be the one walking her down the aisle. She’s six years younger, which means she’s always looked up to me. I’m the one who taught her how to ride a bike, how to deal with a bully (strike fierce and fast), and how to incapacitate a guy when necessary. I didn’t even know she was seeing anyone serious, and it’s not for lack of communication. She texts me all the frigging time. Not a peep about this loser she was seeing. Married?
“It was a secret elopement,” she says softly. “I was going to tell everyone later.”
“And…”
“He got cold feet. Oh, Wyatt, it was so humiliating to be standing there in my wedding gown at our favorite restaurant. He knew the owner—” Her voice chokes, and she breaks down in tears.
My jaw clenches. I will rip him limb from limb.
I scoot my chair closer and stroke her hair back out of her face. “What’s the guy’s name?”
She meets my eyes, sniffling. “What?”
“I said what’s his name? I will track him down like the dog he is and kick his ass.” I turn to Snowball. “No offense to your kind. You have better breeding.”
Snowball blinks her agreement from Kayla’s arms.
“No, don’t do that,” Kayla says, horror laced in her voice. “I don’t want him to know I care that much.”
“Obviously you cared. You were about to shackle yourself to the guy for life. A guy I’ve never met, by the way. Don’t ever do that again. Your family wants to be there.” My voice strangles for a moment, and I cough to clear it. “I’m supposed to walk you down the aisle.”
“I’m sorry. It seemed so romantic, the secret elopement wedding on New Year’s Eve.” She sets Snowball down to hug me.
After she settles in her seat again, I go back to my mission of tracking down the guy who hurt my baby sister. “Was it Christina’s older brother? What’s his name? Rick?” Christina is her best friend from home, now married with a baby.
“No! I never thought of Rick that way.”
“Who introduced you to Mr. Cold Feet? Whose idea was it to have a secret elopement? How long were you seeing him? I have questions, Kayla.” I tap the table for emphasis.
“You don’t know him, okay? I met him online in Always Summer.” That’s a multiplayer role-playing game she likes.
I groan. “Didn’t I tell you not to trust someone hiding behind a character online?”
She pouts. “He seemed different. Besides, we had a two-month in-person relationship, and we had stuff in common.”
“Like what?”
She lifts her chin. “Like we both like Always Summer, Italian food, and he goes to my school.” Her lower lip wobbles, and my chest tightens in sympathy. “It’s not like it wasn’t anything real.” She drops her head in her hands.
I grind my teeth. How many times have I warned my sisters that the anonymity of the internet makes it a dangerous place? I should know. I’ve been working on online apps and tech since I was in high school. Wait a minute, I now have an important piece of information—he’s a student at her university. Most likely a graduate student if he wanted to get married.