Kepler, who was curled up on the seat of a kitchen chair—note to self: remember to check chairs before sitting to avoid squashing Minerva’s best friend—pops up and comes running over. I’ve gotten better at identifying his moods, and this little hopping dance he’s doing right now is something he only does with people he likes. It’s his version of welcoming me home. I kneel down to greet him, and he scrambles up into my arms so that I can hold him like the floppy noodle-baby he is.
Minerva’s response is less effusive, but just as cute. She squeaks and flails around, trying to figure out how to pause the video without getting dough on the keys. After a few false starts, she jabs at the space bar with her elbow until the video freezes.
“It’s fine if you want to keep watching it.”
“I don’t want to lose my place, though.” She scowls down at her sticky hands. “And there’s something I want to discuss with you. Give me a minute.”
I sit down in the chair Kepler just vacated and keep petting the little guy while she cleans up. “What are you making, anyway?”
“Sourdough. Maybe. With all-organic ingredients.” She puffs out her cheeks. “It’s harder than I thought it would be. I mean, it’s just chemistry, but it’s so messy.”
I bite back a joke about messy chemistry. Not the time. “Sourdough sounds good, but we can just buy it, you know?”
Minerva pouts in profile.
“I appreciate the effort, don’t get me wrong, but I promise you, bread is in the budget.”
Instead of laughing along with me, she grimaces. “I’m not charging you for my time. I want to learn it. My mother didn’t like to cook, but… it’s nice, to make things with my hands.” Her shoulders droop. “That sounds stupid.”
It hits me wrong—the way she braces for dismissal like she’s already heard it a thousand times. God, who taught her to feel stupid for liking things? “No, it doesn’t.”
“It’s just…” She lathers up her hands with soap and scrubs beneath her nails with a brush that I don’t remember buying. Come to think of it, there’s a lot of new stuff in the kitchen since she moved in. “My family would say that making things is for people who can’t afford to buy better. But then, they don’t do anything worthwhile with their time. I’d rather make something delicious, even if it won’t last, than be empty like—” She snaps her mouth shut. Her voice goes flat there. Quiet. Like a bruise pressed too hard.
“Like Frankie?” I guess. From what little I saw, her sister does seem like a hollow person, though I’m not sure that a baking hobby would be enough to fix the problem.
“Right.” Minerva shakes herself and snaps up the dishcloth to dry her hands, which are now 100% dough-free. “Anyway, I wanted to talk to you about our living arrangements.”
I rock back in my chair, blindsided by the abrupt change in topic. “Oh. Yeah. What about them?”
She scoops up her laptop on the way over to the kitchen table. As soon as she sits down across from me, Kepler lets out a meep and abandons my lap. He disappears under the table for a few seconds, then reappears as he climbs up to drape himself across her shoulders. Minerva pats him with one hand without looking away from the screen. If there was any doubt in my mind who the spare human is, Kepler just set me straight.
“Per our deal, and thanks to this job, I can afford my own place.” She turns the screen around to face me. It’s a spreadsheet.
The words hit me like cold water. I knew this moment could come, just didn’t think it would be today. My eyes glaze over before I can fully register the numbers. “Oh. Um…”
“I have options. Look. I can start applying, and then I could be out in a couple of weeks. I mean…I won’t have furniture at first, but…”
“Do you want to move out?” I ask.
My throat goes tight.God, please say no.
Minerva snaps her mouth shut with an audible click of her teeth. She stares at me for a long moment, head cocked slightly to one side, brow furrowed. It’s the look I’d wear if someone asked me to solve a calculus problem on the fly, but knowing Minerva, she’d find the math easier than whatever she’s contemplating right now.
“We had an agreement,” she says at last.
“I’m suggesting that we could update the terms of the agreement. We’re still working together, right?”
“I’d still work for you if I moved out.”
“And if that’s what you want, great. But…” Oh, hell, I’m no good at the purely rational approach. “But I’d like you to stay. Please. Unless you want to leave.”
She tilts her head to the other side. “Hm.”
Not exactly an enthusiastic response. “How about this? You think about what you want, while I run an errand. I’ll pick up some dinner while I’m out, and you can keep working on the bread experiment. I’ll be back around seven.”
I have literally no idea what she’s thinking when she says, “Okay.” Her face is a mask.
I’ve taken slapshots to the collarbone that hurt less than not knowing what she’s thinking right now.
