[18+]
College student Hadley Bell is eager to return home for the holidays, but there's a problem. Her ex-no. 44 Nick Baker, Professional Snocross Racer and member of the Bell Race Team, still resides under her parent's roof.
Tensions run high, and...
Song: "Patience" - Guns and Roses (but I kinda like the Chris Cornell cover for this chapter) 🤎
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The market was busy, swarming with people on their way home from work searching for last-minute dinner items. We squeezed down aisles teeming with carts, careful not to bump into people as I snatched everything Baker recited off the list as he drove the cart behind. I'd never realized how much I missed the mundane tasks my mother would bestow upon us. Not until this very moment.
We grabbed everything on the list and then some for sugar cookies I swore I could bake.
Baker didn't seem so sure, not after the jalapeño incident, and it showed in the arch of his skeptical brow.
I rolled my eyes, grabbing every colour of icing sugar the store housed before dumping them into the cart.
We paid, engaging in small talk with cashier Glenda who casually mentioned how nice it was to see us together again.
I said nothing, and neither did Baker, who took his bank card from his wallet.
She took it, rambling on about the winter fair and how excited her grandchildren were about the Santa race.
I smiled and thanked her, escaping the store before someone else stopped us.
I sat in the front seat of the truck, smirking at Baker. "You promised me food."
He smiled at the road, at the festive streetlights flanking both sides of the sidewalk and the red light we were currently stopped at. "We'll drop this off, and then we'll grab something."
"Good," I grinned as we crawled our way to a start.
I felt his smile and might have continued our conversation on how starved I was had he not put his blinker on and pulled into the last place I expected.
The trailer court looked the same every Christmas. The same decorated windows. The same trees adorned with matching lights the residents took great pride in, but I hadn't seen it in quite some time and for good reason.
My brows crinkled deeply as the truck jostled me from uneven asphalt and potholes needing fill.
We drove through rows of homes where drapes were left open, giving us a glimpse of decorated trees, TVs and smiling families before pulling into Baker's old driveway. "Why are we here?" I asked.
I couldn't imagine what prompted him to return, not after what his father did to him.
Baker left the engine running as he undid his seatbelt. "Dropping off the groceries," he answered, replying as if it were obvious.
"Here?"
It wasn't obvious to me. We never spoke of Neil Baker—ever. His name was a bitter curse on our tongues, one that left a horrendous aftertaste of pain-filled memories.
