“Orrr… you could let me show you how to cook. You know, like a functioning adult.”
“You seemed to think I was pretty functional when you were coming all over me.”
I cut my eyes at him. “Anyway, I picked up a few foolproof things. Actual groceries. Your fridge was tragic.” Though I did notice the cream he bought for my coffee.
“You got me groceries?” His brows draw together in surprise, then his expression softens. “Thanks, Web. You didn’t have to do that.”
“No big whoop. Just a few staples. Oh, and a nonstick pan. You literally owned one pot.”
“For mac and cheese.”
“Well, that’s not on tonight’s menu. I’m in the mood for pancakes. Come on.” I grab his wrist, knowing he likes them too, and drag him to the kitchen.
Queenie is perched on top of the fridge like a judge in a high court. After what she witnessed this afternoon and tonight, she probably thinks I’m a ho. But I’m not doing the walk of shame. Girlfriend is spayed. She has no idea about good dick.
I set a treat down on the floor. She leaps gracefully to her feet and eats the pellet, then rubs against my ankles, purring. Her angelic act. But the demon comes out when Dice goes near her. She snarls and hisses, striking lightning fast.
“Jesus.” He jerks back. “And I thought she was the tamer one.”
“You wanna tame me, Dice?”
“Wouldn’t dream of it, wildcat. I love you biting and scratching.”
I feel my face tighten with a frown. That word again—love. Too easy on his tongue.“C, I met this fly honey. I’m in love, bro.”Then a week later, same line, different honey.
Dice didn’t get much love growing up, if any. Maybe that’s why he treats the word as a throwaway. But to me, it’s sacred. I’ve only ever said it to my mother, Rayne, and Uncle Mo. Not even to Dice back then. And now…
The love I have for him is the caring kind. But the deeper kind? I wouldn’t let myself go there again. Even if my heart tries.
“This is how it’s done,” I say, grabbing the ingredients and slapping the box of pancake mix onto the counter. “Step one: pour some of this into the bowl. That’s your job.”
Dice raises an eyebrow. “So, I get to dump powder into a bowl.”
“Don’t mock the process.” I point a spoon at him. “Fluffy pancakes don’t just happen.”
“What’s wrong with the frozen kind? Pop ’em in the toaster. Done. Like we used to.” His eyes alight with the memory.
I remember too. The hours we spent sprawled on his old futon, eating nuked eggs, frozen pancakes, ramen, or boxed mac and cheese… music bumping or watching one of our favorite movies.Pulp Fiction.We’d preempt the lines we knew by heart and laugh in the same places every time.
“Frozen was good,” I agree. “But nothing wrong with a little evolution.”
“So now I’m a Neanderthal?”
“Take it any way you like,” I say with saccharin sweetness.
He kisses his teeth. “How much of this do I pour?”
“I just eye it.”
“I’m pretty sure it has directions,” he says, reading the back of the box.
“Whatever. Just pour. We’ll adjust as needed.”
He dumps in a generous amount.
“Now the eggs.” I nudge two toward him. “And don’t get any shells in it.”
“Please. I know how to handle an egg.” He cracks them in two clean breaks and smirks. Smug as hell.
