A moment passed, then I felt the cushion beside me dip.
I didn’t have to look up to see who it was; Adrian’s loud ass cologne gave him away every time.
He sat beside me, not too close, but just close enough to interrupt my peace. Then leaned in a little, voice low and slightly hesitant. “You still mad at me?”
I ignored him and just scrolled to the next page.
“Look, Chess, I was trippin’ earlier. The bear… the attitude… I let my ego talk. I was wrong.”
From the other side of the room, Bryce’s loud commentary suddenly went quiet. I glanced up for half a second and, sure enough, he was staring right at us, ear hustling, not even trying to hide it, like the entertainment was us, and not the TV.
I swallowed whatever extra words were forming on my tongue and settled on, “It’s water under the bridge, Adrian.”
That’s all I said… even though I wanted to say more. I wanted to remind him how childish he acted, how selfish he sounded, and how I was still trying to piece together what part of the weekend wasn’t a red flag, but with Bryce’s eyes on me like heat lamps, I kept it cute.
Adrian nodded slowly. “I’ll take that. But what about us? I mean, can we—”
“Adrian,” I cut him off, calmly, still not looking at him, “you’re interfering with my reading time.”
He gave a sheepish chuckle. “Got it. I take that as a sign you don’t wanna be bothered.”
“Ding, ding, ding, ding, ding,” I muttered under my breath.
Adrian stood up and stretched. “Aight. I’ll leave you alone… for now. But we still gotta talk.”
In my mind, I replied plainly:
Nigga, the only thing we gotta talk about is how you gon’ keep your distance, mind your business, and find another couch to sit on that ain’t mine until checkout.
But again… Bryce was still watching. So I just flipped another page, and pretended the plot twist on my Kindle was the only drama I was invested in.
Ten minutes later…
CLANG!
BANG!
CRASH!
It sounded as though a cooking competition had spiraled out of control, with Isis in the kitchen yelling at ingredients that refused to cooperate.
Adrian raised an eyebrow, listening to the chaos unfold. “Is she in there cooking or fighting demons?” he questioned, his tone half-amused, half-concerned.
I didn’t even bother responding. I had already sunk back into my Kindle, attempting to escape the impending disaster brewing just beyond the living room.
Not even two minutes passed before the familiar, acrid smell invaded my nostrils. It was a sensory assault—a mixture of burnt batter, over-sizzled bacon, and the unmistakable scent of charred hope.
And did I mention the over-sizzled bacon? Yeah, I did.
Bryce sniffed the air. “The fuck?” he muttered, looking like he’d just caught a whiff of something far worse than breakfast.
And then it happened.
BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!
The smoke alarm blared to life, lighting up the cabin with an alarming urgency. In an instant, we all jumped up, hearts racing, as if the living room had been issued a bomb threat.
Please let this fire extinguisher still work.That was the only fleeting prayer I could muster as we scrambled to get to the kitchen.
