"Tell me about her," he murmured against my hair.
I swallowed. My fingers had somehow curled into his shirt, holding on. It felt strange talking about my mom after so long — like opening a box I kept taped shut.
"She loved trying new recipes," I whispered, staring somewhere near his collar. "Even the ones she knew she was terrible at."
He chuckled softly, still holding me. "Sounds brave."
"She was," I smiled a little. "One year on my birthday, she made this Indian dish. It was so spicy we both cried while eating it."
A small shaky laughter escaped my mouth.
"She kept apologizing and still forced me to finish it because she said we must never waste food."
Nathan smiled — I felt it more than saw it.
His chin lightly brushed the top of my head.
"She sounds like she was fun."
