As the day wears on, I start getting out veggies to go with the teriyaki, and Fi goes to shower.
Michaels wanders over and watches me curiously. “I’m bored. Can I help you?”
“You want to help me cook?”
“I mean, I can cut vegetables. I think.” He gives me an apologetic smile. “Please.”
I give him a doubtful look but hand him the knife and the cutting board and gesture at the onions I already took out. There doesn‘t seem to be a wok in this poorly stocked kitchen, so I pull out the biggest pan I can find and put it on the stove.
“Shit,” Michael hisses, and I turn to find him sucking on his thumb in a way that can only be described as obscene as his tongue snakes around it.
I try not to stare at his lips even as I give a judgmental sigh. “Try not to get blood on the onions, please.” I rub my eyes, feeling exasperated. “Dinner is going to be late.”
“I’m sorry, I…” He pulls his thumb from his mouth, studying it forlornly. He looks so defeated.
I take his hand in mine, inspecting the cut. “It’s not too bad,” I say with an encouraging smile. “I’ll get you a Band-Aid, and we can work on your technique. Prepping food should be a victimless activity. Wash your hand.”
Michaels nods haltingly, his hazel eyes locking with mine, and I turn away and walk to the front door, grabbing the first-aid box I spotted on a shelf earlier. The Band-Aids inside are so old the packaging is yellowed and stiff, but when I open one, it seems functional. Michaels has just finished drying his hand, so I gently wrap the bandage around his thumb.
“Thanks.”
“Sure.” My breath feels tight in my chest.Why is this so fucking awkward?I clear my throat. “So show me how you cut onions, Stitch.”
He approaches the cutting board and starts slicing chaotically, and I wince.
“Okay, okay, wait.” I place my hand over his on the cutting board, stilling the knife, and then I reach around his other side. Michaels stiffens against me. “Relax,” I murmur, and he listens, the tension in his muscles lessening.
I position the onion and curl his fingertips against it so they’re no longer a slaughter risk. “Like this,” I say as I guide him to cut.
He watches me quietly until I step back and he tries for himself.
When I’m satisfied he’s not going to hurt himself again, I give Michaels another onion, but once that one is done, we both agree that he’s helped enough. I banish him from the kitchen, but he perches at the counter and continues to watch me, bouncing his leg and tapping the counter with his pointer finger.
“Has anyone ever told you that you have ADHD?”
“Only every teacher and coach I’ve ever had.” He picks at the edge of the Band-Aid on his thumb. “But my dad thinks the diagnosis is bullshit, so I’ve never really been treated for it.”
I give him a deadpan look. “No offense, but your dad sounds like a dick.” I go back to chopping.
Michaels snorts a laugh. “He is a dick. I hate him.”
“I’m sorry,” I say, dumping my cutting board of veggies into the pan. I nod at the radio-slash-tape-deck thing on the counter.It’s boxy with a handle and it shines dull silver in the warm kitchen lights. “I saw you fussing with that yesterday day. Does it work?”
“I got the radio bit to work when I wiggled the antenna around, but I can only pick up a fuzzy country station.”
“There’s some cassettes in that desk by the door.” We look over at Fi, who just emerged from the bathroom wrapped in a towel. Her hair falls damp and wavy over her slim shoulders.
Michaels blushes and averts his eyes, and a twinge of annoyance skips through my chest. He’s been fucking her, but the sight of her in a towel makes him blush? For Christ’s sake.
She continues down the hallway and enters her room.
Hopping up, Michaels walks over to the desk and opens the drawer. “Half of these are handwritten. How did they even record music on these thingies back in the day?”
He pulls out a tape with a smirk, then walks back to the counter to slide it into the tape deck.
“Some sort of retro eighties magic, I guess.” I add the chicken to the mix and step back as it sizzles before I stir it around. “But none of our parents are decent people, so they’re not around to explain how these things work.”
He glances up at me and frowns. “Yeah, why is that? Is Lincoln the only person with a half-decent parent?”
