She was in the kitchen last night when I walked out of the mud room and saw Mason walk out behind me. I tried to pretend like it was nothing unusual, like he just happened to be in there doing mud room things at the same time as me.
Ugh, that sounds so lame, there isn’t anything I can think of that we would be doing in the mudroom at the same time. Late in the evening. During a tree-trimming party. With alcohol.
“Good morning,” I say as she walks around the island to the cabinet with the mugs.
She only smiles over her shoulder as she walks. She’s about four years older than me, but every time I’m around her I feel like she is younger. Kinley has never had responsibilities, she’s grown up on a ranch that she hates while at the same time taking advantage of all the freedom and privilege it gives her.
Even though I try not to be judgy, Kinley never fails to behave like a spoiled thirty-year-old.
I bite my cheek as I wait for her to say something.
Her back is to me as she stands on her tiptoes to reach the cocoa in the cabinet. Her thick blond waves fall down the backof the oversized sweater that almost reaches her knees. I passively watch her as I continue stirring the batter for the pancakes.
Her movements are slow and deliberate, she pours a mug of milk and sets it in the microwave, keeping her back to me.
It’s almost like she’s trying to create tension.
The microwave dings that the mug of milk is warm and she slowly pulls it out and sashays to the counter with a smirk. I know she is dying to say something about seeing Mason and me in the den the other day, and then again last night, even her movements scream ‘I know something you don’t know’.
All the muscles across my shoulders are starting to pull tighter and I press my lips together, the tension in the room is getting thicker the longer it takes her to make a simple cup of cocoa.
It’s the damn smirk she wants me to see.
She sets the spoon she was stirring with on the counter and blows across the top of her cocoa, between breaths she says, “So, are you cleaning my brother’s pipes?”
Taking a deep breath while keeping my attention on the bowl in front of me, I say, “I don’t know what you’re talking about, I’m not cleaning anything of your brother’s besides his laundry.”
Taking a sip, she leans her hip against the counter and narrows her eyes. She tilts her head and smiles, “Is he paying you extra for that service?”
I stop stirring, angry heat is creeping up my neck and cheeks and I meet her hazel eyes, “Are you implying that I’m a prostitute?”
Her smile is saccharine, “I’m not implying anything, I know what I saw and,” she points her finger at me and swirls it in the air, “youare fucking my brother, and I’m wondering if its a free service or an additional charge.”
Anger and embarrassment overtake my thoughts and without thinking I lift the spatula that my hand has a death grip on and sling it in her direction as I whisper yell, “Don’t be crass, I am not fucking your brother.”
The shock on her face with her arms held out to the side echoes the disbelief I’m feeling as I look at the line of pancake batter splattered on the front of her sweater and across her face. I drop the spatula back into the bowl and slap my hand over my mouth in surprise.
As she looks down at the front of her sweater, a dollop of batter drops off her nose into her mug. She slowly lifts her head, her eyes are practically slits and her lips are a tight line. It strikes me as odd that this is the first time I’ve noticed how alike she and Tucker look.
It happens in slow motion as she picks up her mug and tosses its contents in my direction, overly warm cocoa splashes onto my face and down my front. Now I’m the one holding my arms to my sides as the sticky liquid drips off me.
Maybe I should stay away from hot cocoa.
Anger takes over and I swipe my hand through the batter in the bowl and sling more of it at her, it hits her mouth and chin and slides down her neck. Her shock morphs into anger and through clenched teeth, she says, “You whore,” as she launches herself at me, but her thick socks slip in the cocoa on the floor and she falls against me, her hands holding my arms as she tries to keep her balance.
Her face is a mask of surprise as she slips while trying to gain her footing, I try to pull my arms out of her grip, half to encourage her to fall and half to stop myself from slipping with her, but I end up going down with her anyway.
We both yelp as we fall to the floor. The pancake batter mixes with the cocoa and she starts sliding on her knees as she starts to crawl up my legs, the anger on her face even more evident than it was before.
“You’re going to regret that, whore.” She yells.
“I am not a whore!” I bellow between clenched teeth and surprise us both when I grab her hair and pull her to the side to try to get on top of her.
I’ve never been a physically aggressive person, my passive nature usually has me avoiding all forms of conflict, but the past few years have put a little bit of steel in my backbone.
Her hand slaps on the side of my head as she grabs my hair in return and we start to roll around in the mess of batter and cocoa, each trying to get the upper hand in the slippery mess.
Somewhere in the back of my mind, I hear Mr. Harlow bellow, “Jeesuus! What the hell’s going on in here?”
