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I shrug, pulling two plates from the cupboard. I plate the plates with the butchered pizza. “I’ll be fine.”

The things I do for this woman.

Her hand finds her cocked hip. “You cringe every time I eat them.”

“Now you’re being dramatic.” To prove my point, I take a big bite as I walk my plate to the table.

It’s not as bad as I remember, I tell myself.

I turn to find the pop I left only to find Faye holding it out for me. Her brows lift and she asks, “I’m dramatic?”

I take the can, washing down the abomination with what I hope is a concealed cringe. “Yep.”

She shakes her head but joins me at the table with her plate. I watch as she squeezes an ungodly amount of ranch onto the corner, dunking her pizza and moaning in delight.

That moan is worth suffering through the torture that is an olive-covered pizza.

Somehow, I manage to get the slice down the gullet. Then, to prove my point, I reach for another.

The smile Faye gives me is enough to alter my subconscious into thinking maybe, just maybe they could become a new favorite food.

“You really don’t hate it?”

I rearrange my wince. “It’s delicious.”

“I think you lie.” She nibbles at her crust. “Your mom came into the shop today.”

My eyes wing up to Faye’s. “She did?”

She dips her chin. “She wants to know if we’ll come for Christmas.”

So that’s why Dad’s been easier to talk to this last week. Mom’s put her foot down. She’s ready to move on from the rift that is me and Faye and Holt—and the baby.

I sit back in my chair. “What about your parents?”

“They were invited.”

I study her as she plucks an olive off another piece of pizza, popping it onto her tongue. Woman can’t get enough olives.

I ask, “What do you want?”

She shrugs.

I press, “Faye?”

A sigh spills from her lips, and I don’t miss the way she tucks her unsteady hands into her lap under the table. “I want our family to feel like family again.”

Jesus.

She continues, “I hate this tension. I hate knowing how much I’ve hurt everyone.”

“I hate that you carry all the blame on your shoulders, like we all aren’t playing a part.”

She shakes her head as she stands, swiping her plate and carrying it to the sink. “I think I’m going to have a bath. My back has been killing me.”

Translation: she’s done talking.

“I’ve got the dishes.”