Nine
My first morning in the Beaumont house is overwhelming. Marcus has already gone to work by the time I get up and go downstairs, where Valencia is waiting for me.
“Good morning!” She takes the pizza plate I brought down, putting it in the sink, and asks me how I want my eggs.
“Scrambled is fine, thank you.”
She hands me a thick fan deck of paint samples to look at for my room and tells me to sit at the kitchen table while she cooks. I absentmindedly look through the colors but I still feel weird changing Nate’s room.
“How did you sleep?” she asks.
“Fine.” In truth I slept better than I thought I was going to. Maybe it was exhaustion catching up with me. Or maybe the past eight months have taught me to get sleep however I can, wherever I can, for aslongas I can. Because who knows when the next time I’ll get it will be?
“I’ve taken the rest of the week off,” she says.
So she’ll be here all day? That’s not good.
“You don’t have to do that. Really, I’m fine.”
“I know how overwhelming all this is for you.” She uses a spatulato put the eggs on a plate and walks it over to me. “You’re in a strange house, toyouwe’re strange people. I don’t want you to feel alone.”
I think I’d rather feel alone for a bit. Especially because if I’m alone, then I can get out of here.
The front door opens, and Valencia moves to the kitchen doorway. Her smile grows and she waves. “Honey, come in here. Your brother’s up.”
Easton enters the kitchen and looks right at me. I can’t tell what he’s thinking because his face is blank. He’s dressed in shorts and a sweat-soaked T-shirt, so he must have gone for a run.
“Hey,” he says.
“Hi.”
Valencia goes back to the stovetop. “Do you want some breakfast?”
“Sure,” Easton says. Then he goes over to the fridge and gets a bottle of water. He chugs it down, his Adam’s apple bobbing, and stares at me from across the room. Just like last night, it’s as if he’s studying me, trying to find the flaw that proves I’m not who I say I am.
My heart is in my throat.
Once he finishes the water, he goes over to the sink and stops, staring into it. Then he looks back at me and smirks.
“You took the onions off.”
Valencia turns to him. “What’s that, hon?”
Easton reaches into the sink and takes out the plate. “The onions on the pizza. He took them off.”
“I don’t like onions,” I say. But my heart is picking up speed. What if Nate was an onion fanatic? Maybe they got onions on their pizzaforNate. I don’t mind cooked onions in things like casseroles, but raw on a pizza is a definite no.
“Yeah,” Easton says. “I know you don’t. You never did.”
I look at Valencia, who’s staring at the plate with wide eyes, as if it’s the last bit of proof she needed to know her son is home. Then she laughs.
“Some things never change,” she says, and goes back to cooking Easton’s eggs.
My heart starts to slow. Easton puts the plate back in the sink and refills his water bottle.
Fucking onion. Maybe Nate and I aren’t that different after all.
Easton sits across from me at the kitchen table. He gives a resigned sigh and shakes his head. “Welcome home, Nate-o. Try not to get stolen again, please.”
