August’s answering smile fades as well, a slow setting sun as his brows draw together. I have seen his eyes countless times, but until this moment, I’ve never truly looked into them. Striations of the palest frost mix and swirl with summer blue. It’s like staring at the cross section of a blue lace agate stone. Against his dark lashes and slashing brows, the effect is startling. And though I’ve often thought of August having icy eyes, they aren’t cold now.
No, not cold at all. Not when they send heat washing over me. Not when I feel myself softening, going pliable as warm wax. It dawns on me how close we are to each other—him half crouched on the floor, me half sprawled on the pillows and leaning his way.
Awareness has me pulling back, breaking the moment. His easy manner becomes stiff as he retreats into himself as well. Silence follows, heavy and awkward. I look around, searching for something to say.
“Where is everyone else?”
August rises to his feet. “They left when the movie ended. I said I’d wake you up.”
Why him? Why not June or May?
My questions must show.
“I volunteered,” he says. “After all, you promised me you wouldn’t fall asleep. How could I not be here for the ‘I told you so’?”
Wrinkling my nose, I haul myself up with all the grace I can muster, which is to say none. My shirt is twisted around my torso like a green snake. I pull it into place as August stands back to give me room.
“I think your mother drugged the potatoes.”
He nods like it’s an entirely reasonable accusation. “Only one problem with that, Sweets. We all ate the potatoes.”
“That’s true— ‘Sweets’? I am not sweet.”
“Yeah, I’ll give you that.” He bites his bottom lip. “But you look it.”
“Listen—” I’m cut off by a loud, insistent stomach gurgle. The kind that demands:Feed me!
August and I blink at each other, then he grimaces. “Sorry. I need constant refueling.”
I can only thank the gods that it wasn’t my stomach yelling at the room. “You didn’t eat much at dinner,” I say, and realize it’s the truth. August had picked at his food when he usually packs it in like his stomach is going on vacation.
His easy expression blanks. “Better make up for that now. You want to join me for a sandwich?”
My knee-jerk reaction is to decline, but it hits me that I’m hungry too. Because I hadn’t eaten much at dinner either. “Okay.”
He hides his surprise quickly, but I still see it. August inclines his head toward the kitchen and then leads the way. The house feels bigger in the quiet of the night, the old wood floors creaking underfoot. The kitchen, however, is warm and cozy, with its creamy Shaker cabinets and brushed steel appliances. Someone left the under-cabinet lights on and they glow upon the walnut wood countertops.
“All right, then,” he says, all business now. “How hungry are you?”
“I could eat an average-size sandwich, but nothing like the massive ones you guys tackle.”
“Okay. One regular sandwich and one tiny sandwich coming up.” He rubs his hands together, then pauses. “You trust me to make you something good?”
“Sure. Do you want help?”
“Nah. Relax, and I’ll get you fed.”
I take a seat at the wide island counter and watch August pull supplies out of the fridge before heading to the bread box. He moves with the grace and confidence of the professional athlete that he is, deftly cutting two soft onion rolls in half and slathering them with Thousand Island dressing. Next comes thinly shaved roast beef—piled like a mountain on one and hill on the other—and then slices of white cheddar. I rest my chin on my hand and watch.
“I had no idea you could cook,” I tell him.
“Making a sandwich is more an exercise in architecture and creativity.” He grabs a large carrot and begins to grate it onto a plate. “But Mom made sure we could all do the basics.” August looks up at me from under the mop of hair that has fallen over his brow. “You won’t starve when you’re with me, Sweets.”
“Keep calling me that, and I’m going to come up with an equally ridiculous nickname for you.”
“You say that like it’s a threat.”
“It was.”
