Merit (Treasure State Wildcats Book 4)
Merit: Chapter 1

The daisy on my mini pumpkin was smudged.

“Damn it.” I’d worked hard on that daisy.

I licked my finger, rubbing the white streak, trying to make the petal look like a petal again, but the paint had dried overnight.

This was what I got for doing a craft project at three o’clock in the morning.

At least the red and yellow Happy Thanksgiving still looked pretty good. Mom wouldn’t care if this pumpkin was less than perfect. She had a plastic tub crammed with my elementary school art projects and loved them to pieces even though most were a hot mess.

With my pumpkin in hand and Mom’s favorite prosecco under an arm, I knocked on the door to my parents’ house, not waiting for an answer as I pushed inside. “Hello.”

The house didn’t smell like turkey or rolls or stuffing or pies.

We were eating here, right? Mom had said come over at noon so we could eat around one. Or were we eating at the Adairs’?

“Maverick?” Mom called from the living room.

“Yeah.” I toed off my shoes and walked down the entryway to the living room. Mom was on the couch with a crocheted blanket on her lap.

The sick blanket.

When I was a kid, that was the blanket she’d cover me in whenever I had a sick day. That fucking blanket had been a constant lately.

“Hey.” I went to the couch, sitting by her feet. “Not feeling well again?”

“Not the best.” She gave me a sad smile.

Her brown hair was pulled into a knot at the base of her neck. She was dressed in a cozy cardigan, and though she’d put on makeup, beneath the blush and foundation, her skin seemed too pallid. She looked too thin.

“For you.” I handed over the mini pumpkin. “I fucked up the daisy.”

“Maverick,” she chided. “Language.”

“Sorry. I screwed up the daisy.” I set the prosecco bottle on the end table and relaxed into the couch. “Got another bug, huh?”

“Yeah.” She lifted a shoulder, smiling at the pumpkin. “This is cute. Thank you.”

“Welcome.” I lifted her feet into my lap, massaging the arches through her fuzzy Gobble Gobble socks.

A gift from my sister, no doubt. Mabel probably had a pair like that in her purse for me too. It wasn’t a holiday if we weren’t all in matching, themed socks.

Mom sighed as I kept massaging her feet, sinking into the pillow behind her shoulders. “I’m sorry I didn’t cook.”

“Meh. I don’t care. We can order pizza. Hang out. Watch football.”

“No pizza,” she said. “Your dad is in charge of food. He had to run to the store. He should be back soon.”

Which meant we’d probably have deli sandwiches. A ham and turkey sub was about the extent of Dad’s culinary expertise. But the man could make a solid hammy sammy, and I wasn’t picky.

“Where’s Mabel and Bodhi?” My sister’s car was out front, and Bodhi’s shoes had been by the front door. They were the new pair of Nike LeBrons I’d given my nephew for his eighth birthday.

“Mabel went with your dad. Bodhi is downstairs playing, I’m sure with a ball of some sort. I swear he’s worse than you were at that age.”

Soccer or basketball or football or baseball. If I’d been awake and not in school, there’d been a ball in my hand.

“I’ll go say hi,” I said, shoving to my feet, but before I could head downstairs, the doorbell rang.

“That’ll be the Adairs.” Mom shifted to get up, but I waved her off.

“I’ll get it.”

It wouldn’t be Thanksgiving or Christmas or Easter or Flag Day or the Fourth of July without the Adairs. We hadn’t spent a holiday without my parents’ best friends since, well . . . ever.

Declan Adair was Dad’s best friend. Elle Adair was Mom’s.

My parents had moved to Montana from Nebraska before I was born, and though I had a few aunts and uncles in Omaha, we’d never been close and rarely visited. The distance had always made gatherings tough.

The Adairs had filled the role of family.

Declan was an uncle of sorts. Elle was an aunt. And their daughter, Stevie, the bane of my existence.

“Maverick.” Mom stopped me before I could leave the living room. “Be nice to Stevie today.”

I scoffed. “I’m always nice to Stevie.”

Mostly nice.

Mom arched her eyebrows.

“Are you going to tell her to be nice too?”

“You sound like Bodhi. Don’t pout. You’re too old to pout.”

“Fine,” I muttered. “I’ll be nice.”

“Good.”

I waited until I was in the entryway, out of sight, before I rolled my eyes.

“And don’t roll your eyes at me, young man.”

“Sorry, Mom.” I opened the door, stepping to the side as I waved in the Adairs. “Happy Thanksgiving.”

“Hi, Maverick.” Elle’s hands were covered in oven mitts as she carried in a silver roasting pan.

“Can I help?” I asked.

“Nope.” She winked, then strode through the house for the kitchen, smiling at Mom as she passed the living room. “Hey, Mer.”

“Hi, Ellie,” Mom said.

“Maverick.” Declan clapped me on the shoulder. He had two large totes, one hung from each shoulder, and at a quick glance, both were full of food. “Good to see you.”

“You too. I can carry one of those.”

“Nah. I’ve got it.” He headed for the kitchen, following his wife.

I didn’t bother asking if Stevie wanted help carrying in the ceramic dish in her hands. The look she shot me was a very plain get the fuck out of my way.

Why was I always the one being told to be nice? She started our fights half the time. Why was it always my fault?

“Happy Thanksgiving, Adair,” I said, too brightly.

“Houston.” She scrunched up her nose as she passed like my breath was bad.

I cupped a hand over my mouth, let out a hot huff and sniffed it. Cinnamon fresh.

Women loved cinnamon, and I loved women. Most of them loved me too.

Except Stevie.

She followed her parents into the house, giving me a shoulder as cold as the winter weather. The skirt of her dress swished at her hips as she walked.

Her dress was long-sleeved and black with a tiny flower print. The fabric was flowy and a tie cinched it around her waist. Her chocolate brown hair was in a loose braid, the end hitting just above her ass. An ass barely covered by the hem of that dress.

Which meant her mile-long legs were almost entirely on display. Or would have been if not for the tan boots that came up past her knees.

Where was her coat? It was freezing outside. There was snow on the ground. Shouldn’t she put some fucking pants on? Was it really necessary to flash us all those damn legs?

“Happy Thanksgiving, Meredith,” she said, smiling as she passed the living room.

Stevie smiled at everyone. She smiled all the freaking time. Unless she was looking at me. Would it kill her to give me a smile?

“Thanks, sweetie. You look pretty today.”

Stevie always looked pretty. It made hating her a little bit harder, but I managed.

“So do you. As always,” she told Mom.

It was a stretch. Mom looked rough today. But if there was anything that would ensure I’d be nice today, it was Stevie’s love for Mom.

I closed the door to keep out the cold, then padded into the kitchen. The Adairs were taking over and setting up everything for a traditional Thanksgiving meal.

The roasting pan went into the oven, probably to keep the turkey warm. Elle swapped Mom’s empty crockpot dish for the one Stevie had carried in. And from the ingredients Declan was hauling out from his totes, it looked like we’d be having some sort of fruit salad and green bean casserole.

They’d spent enough time in this kitchen that it was as familiar as their own. The reverse was true at their place. Mom had made more than one meal at the Adairs’ house.

“Can I help?” I asked.

“No, you kids go relax.” Elle shooed Stevie and me out of the kitchen. “Keep Meredith company.”

“Okay.” I shrugged.

“I can set the table,” Stevie said. “Or pour waters. Or make the veggie tray.”

“Or do anything other than be around me,” I said. “That’s what she really wants to say.”

Stevie walked over, a smirk on her lips, and tapped me on the nose. “Exactly.”

I scowled and batted her hand away.

“You two.” Elle sighed. “Not today, okay? Save your bickering for another time. Please just . . . not today.”

“Be nice to Maverick,” Declan said, giving Stevie a pointed stare.

“Ha,” I snickered, covering it with a cough. Then I pounded my fist over my heart. “Frog in my throat.”

Stevie’s lip curled.

“Go.” Elle shooed us again. “Out.”

I turned for the hallway as Stevie marched out of the kitchen, crossing her arms over her chest, the heels of her boots clicking on the hardwood floor as we both headed for the living room. “Why are you all dressed up? You know we’re just hanging out today.”

“Just because you’re okay wearing ratty gray sweats and a hoodie that looks”—she leaned over and sniffed my arm—“and smells about five wears past its need for the washing machine doesn’t mean the rest of us have given up on hygiene or appearance.”

I lifted the front of my sweatshirt, bringing it to my nose. Okay, so it wasn’t exactly fresh.

This was my favorite Treasure State University Wildcats hoodie, and I’d had it since freshman year. The sweatpants too. They were a bit frayed at the hems but they were comfortable. Perfect for a day of lounging. Which was why I’d plucked them both off my floor this morning. And because I’d gotten behind on laundry.

They weren’t that bad. Were they? I sniffed my sweatshirt again, this time at my armpits.

Maybe I should have worn something else. Not that I’d ever admit that to Stevie.

Before I could come up with a snarky reply, Stevie walked ahead of me and into the living room, taking the end of the love seat that sat perpendicular to the couch. She flicked her braid over her shoulder, all but dismissing me from the room.

“So how was the date?” Mom asked her.

The absolute last thing I wanted to do was listen to her tell Mom about whatever guy she was dating at the moment, so I veered toward the stairs. Downstairs, Bodhi was shooting a rubber ball into his mini hoop.

“Hey, bud. Happy Thanksgiving.”

“Hey, Uncle Mav.” His cheeks were flushed and a few strands of his wavy, brown hair were sweaty. He had on the same fuzzy socks as Mom.

This kid was my favorite human on the planet. He was funny and smart. He said whatever crossed his mind. And he didn’t do anything half-assed.

Kind of like his uncle.

“Watch this.” Bodhi backed into the corner, lined up his shot and launched the ball into the air.

It smacked the ceiling and bounced off the floor, not even coming close to touching the rim.

“Dang.” His shoulders slumped. “I just made that shot.”

“It was a good try.” I grabbed the ball from the floor and tossed it over. “You shoot. I’ll rebound.”

The basement was a large, open room, perfect for sports on cold Montana days. We’d spent plenty of hours down here together, usually with a game on the TV as background noise, doing trick shots or playing foosball.

“’Kay.” He shot the ball again, the arch better this time, so the ball hit the rim.

“Nice.” I caught it off the bounce and walked it over. “Smell my sweatshirt. Does it stink?”

He leaned in, sniffed and shrugged. “Not really.”

Not the hard no I was hoping for. Damn.

I handed him the ball, but before he could take it, I spun around and shot it myself, sending it swishing through the hoop. “Yeah, baby.”

“Show-off.” Bodhi laughed, racing for the ball.

We played for a while, shooting and dunking and goofing around, until Mabel called from the top of the staircase.

“Bodhi. Mav. Time to eat.”

He tossed the ball one last time, then we jogged upstairs, replaceing everyone shuffling around the dining room table.

“Hey.” I pulled Mabel into a hug before she could sit down. “Happy Thanksgiving.”

“Hi.” She held on for a long moment, arms tight around my waist.

“You okay?” I asked.

She nodded but didn’t let me go.

My sister thrived on fuzzy socks, pumpkin spice lattes and autumnal-colored cardigans. Thanksgiving was her favorite holiday, and if she was hugging me like this, something was wrong.

Was it her ex? Bodhi’s dad wasn’t in the picture. That motherfucker—I refused to even think of him by his name—hadn’t been since Bodhi was six months old and he’d left Mission, abandoning both his child and my sister.

The day that asshole had walked away from her and Bodhi was the day he’d become dead to me. For the most part, he was nonexistent. He lived in Washington or Idaho or Oregon. I’d stopped keeping track. But every once in a while, Mabel would hear something about him and it would put her in a funk.

“Hi, son.” Dad came over, breaking up the hug to pull me in for one of his own, slapping my back a couple times.

“Hey, Dad.”

When he leaned away, his gaze was watery. Wait, was he crying? Monty Houston didn’t cry. Ever. What the fuck was going on?

“Thank you for cooking, Elle.” Mom took her seat beside Dad’s empty chair as the rest of us went to our usual places.

The same chairs we always sat in. Dad at the head of the table, Declan at the foot. Mom and Elle and Mabel on one side. Bodhi, Stevie and me on the other—Bodhi always between us as the buffer.

Mom had the mini pumpkin I’d made her beside her water glass. The sick blanket was still on her lap. She gave me a smile that didn’t reach her eyes when I sat down across from her.

Okay, something was definitely going on.

Mabel dabbed at the corners of her eyes as she took her seat, and when Elle sat beside her, they held hands, so tight their knuckles turned white.

The table was piled with food, turkey and stuffing and potatoes and cranberries and rolls. No one moved to fill their plate.

Mom looked to Dad, and whatever passed between them made my stomach sink.

That sinking feeling only worsened as Dad struggled to say grace, pausing every few seconds to clear his throat. He was not a man who used many ums and uhs. He didn’t stumble through a prayer.

“Let’s eat,” Declan said, scooping a heap of mashed potatoes onto his plate.

We all followed suit, loading up. But my side of the table seemed to be the only one with an appetite.

Mom picked at her food. Not unusual for someone not feeling the best. But so did Dad. So did Mabel. So did Elle and Declan.

Conversation was stilted, and rather than talk about anything meaningful, we chatted about the weather. The fucking weather.

That sinking feeling was so deep by the end of the meal that I was regretting that second helping of turkey and stuffing.

“That was delicious,” Dad said, looking to Elle and Declan. “Thank you, guys.”

“Any time.” Declan gave him a sure nod.

“Bodhi, you can go play or watch football,” Mabel said. “We’ll have pie in a little while. I’m too full for dessert right now.”

That was a damn lie. Mabel hadn’t eaten much of anything, even her mashed potatoes. She loved mashed potatoes.

“’Kay. Wanna watch a game, Uncle Mav?” Bodhi asked.

“Yeah, in a few. You get it going. I’ll be down in a bit.”

He seemed reluctant to leave the table, like he could feel the tension too. Like he knew the adults were about to discuss a topic clearly not suitable for children.

“Go on,” I said, giving him a nod.

He pushed out his chair and went to the stairs.

“Close that door, Bodhi,” Mabel said, knowing her son well enough to expect him to linger on the stairs and eavesdrop.

“Okay.” He frowned but obeyed.

She waited a few moments, then stood and checked that he’d actually gone downstairs.

The only topic that we never, ever discussed around Bodhi was his father.

Did he want custody or something? Was he trying to get back into Bodhi’s life? That asshole could rot. He’d given up his rights, and as far as I was concerned, he wasn’t getting them back.

“What?” I asked at the same time Stevie said, “What’s going on?”

Well, at least I wasn’t the only person who was confused as fuck about this holiday gathering.

Mom and Dad shared another one of their looks, and my insides roiled.

“Thanks for coming,” Mom said, her gaze sweeping around the table before it landed on me. There were tears in her eyes. Why was she crying?

“Mom.” My voice cracked.

“I have cancer.”

She might as well have kicked the chair out from beneath me.

Stevie gasped, slapping a hand over her mouth.

I shook my head, refusing to let that sentence be true. “No, you don’t. You’re just sick.”

“Maverick.” She gave me a sad smile. “It’s cancer. And it’s . . .”

She blinked too fast, swallowed too hard. Then she crumpled, leaning forward, chin ducked, to hide her tears. Right before my eyes, my mother, the best, strongest, kindest, most loving woman on this earth, crumpled.

“It’s . . . what?” I whispered.

“Advanced.” She sniffled, wiping away more tears when she finally looked up. “We’ll try treatment. But the prognosis isn’t good.”

“What does that . . .” I couldn’t finish my question. I couldn’t fucking breathe.

“I’m sorry,” Mom whispered.

I should have told her not to apologize. That she had nothing to be sorry for.

Instead, I rushed to the bathroom.

And puked up Thanksgiving dinner.

Fuck, it was cold.

I’d been sitting outside on the front stoop for, well . . . I wasn’t sure how long I’d been outside. Long enough that I couldn’t feel the tips of my ears or my fingers.

But the house had been too hot. Too sticky and stuffy. Too heavy.

So I’d come outside to breathe. To cool off.

And now I didn’t want to go inside.

Acute myeloid leukemia.

Mom had explained the details of her cancer. Of her treatment. She’d be going to the hospital for chemotherapy. Something called induction. From there, she might need a stem cell transplant.

There were a lot of unknowns at this point. A lot of statistics. When Dad had started spouting numbers, percentages and survival rates, I’d tuned it all out. I’d stopped listening and stared at Mabel’s uneaten mashed potatoes.

When they were finished explaining, I’d been close to getting sick again, so I’d come outside to breathe.

Wasn’t leukemia for kids? Mom was in her late forties. She shouldn’t have leukemia. She shouldn’t have cancer.

Cancer. Cancer. Cancer. That word kept running through my mind on a loop.

I hung my head, forearms on my knees, and breathed through my nose as the world spun and turned like I was riding a roller coaster.

I hated roller coasters.

My mom had cancer. And that cancer was likely going to kill her. She’d made it a point to tell me three times that the prognosis wasn’t good. Like I hadn’t heard her the first time.

Besides Stevie, everyone else at the table had already known. Wasn’t that some bullshit? Why were we the last to replace out?

I couldn’t feel my toes. My shoes were still inside in the entryway. My socks were just plain, white socks. Mabel hadn’t given me my fuzzy Thanksgiving socks.

We’d been too busy talking about cancer.

The door opened behind me. I didn’t turn. It was probably Dad or Mabel. Maybe Declan. But the click of heels made me sit up straight as Stevie dropped to a seat beside me.

“Here.” She handed me my shoes.

I pulled them on without a word, not bothering with the laces. Then she handed me the keys to my truck. Somehow, she’d guessed I wouldn’t be going back inside.

“Thanks.” I pushed to my feet and started down the sidewalk for the driveway.

“Maverick?”

I turned as Stevie stood, walking closer.

Her hazel eyes were swimming with tears.

Everyone inside had already dealt with this blow. They’d had the chance to let it sink in.

Not us. They’d told us at fucking Thanksgiving, with my mini pumpkin and smudged daisy on the table.

It felt like someone had shoved a hot poker down my throat. My eyes watered, my nose was on fire. When was the last time I’d cried?

I wasn’t sure who moved first. One moment, I was staring at the girl who’d hated me since we were ten. The next, she was in my arms. I clung to her the way she clung to me, in a hug so tight it was hard to breathe.

I closed my eyes before the tears could fall. I folded around her, my face buried in her neck as she burrowed into my chest.

When was the last time we’d hugged?

Probably twelve years ago, when we were kids. In the days when we used to be friends.

Best friends.

I needed my best friend today. So I hugged her, leaned on her. And breathed in the scent of her floral perfume. The orange blossoms in her hair.

I let myself lean on her for another heartbeat, then let her go.

Her hazel eyes were still full of tears. “I’m so sorry.”

I didn’t want her apologies either. What I wanted was for my mom not to be dying. I wanted to rewind time and go back to when we were ten. When Stevie didn’t hate me. When we used to be friends. When Mom wasn’t sick.

But we weren’t friends. And my mother had leukemia.

Fuck cancer.

And fuck Thanksgiving too.