I drop four pats of butter onto the griddle in a square pattern to slowly melt, then step out of the way so Brandon can pour four perfect circles of pancake batter.
When he finishes, I tell him, “I’m not going to make excuses for what I did, even though I thought what I was doing was the right thing at the time. I screwed up with Aria. Worst mistake I ever made. I just want a chance to make things right.”
He puts the bowl down and grabs a spatula. “She’s not going to make it easy on you.”
A deep chuckle escapes. “I hope not.”
I look down at my watch. It’s been eight minutes. I was serious when I told Aria she had ten minutes to get dressed or else I would do it for her.
Brandon passes the spatula to me to flip the pancakes and gets out three plates from the dishwasher.
“You play baseball, right?”
A boyish smile creases his cheeks. “Yep. Centerfield.”
I place the pancakes in a stack on one of the plates and pour more batter onto the griddle.
“I guess I’ll be seeing a lot of you since I’m your new coach.”
His eyes go round with surprise. “No shit?”
“No shit.”
“Cool.”
We both turn when there’s a crash as a harried-looking Aria slides across the linoleum floor in socked feet and careens into a chair.
“Ten minutes exactly,” I tell her, and she glowers at me.
“Not like I had a choice,” she grumbles, righting herself and tugging her shirt back into place.
Her hair is a mess, she’s wearing baggy sweatpants and the ugliest argyle socks I’ve ever seen, and her face is scrubbed clean of makeup. I can see the smattering of freckles that bridge her nose. She has never looked more beautiful.
“Coffee?”
Her scowl could melt iron. “No, thank you.”
Brandon supersedes. “On it.”
Her frown transfers from me to her brother before landing back on me.
I innocently smile and hold the plate out to her. “Breakfast is ready.”
She plants her hands on her hips like Mama Mac does when she’s irritated with something Bennett or I have done.
“I remembered to add vanilla.”
Her hands drop to her side.
“And melted butter.”
With a huff, Aria snatches the plate and the fork I’m also holding and stomps over to the small eating table. When the single cup coffee maker spits out the last of the coffee, I add two yellow packets of sweetener I find in a dish next to the machine and walk the mug over to Aria. She’s quietly sitting at the table, food untouched, watching me.
“I don’t understand you,” she says as I place the steaming coffee in front of her.
“Understand what?”
Her chin dips to her chest and she shakes her head slightly. “That you remembered I like vanilla extract in my pancake batter or the way I take my coffee.”
