“Switch,” Charlotte says, and Fallon takes over whisking the pancake batter.
The top of her head disappears from view when she squats down behind the counter island. Popping back up, holding the electric griddle, she plugs it into the GFCI outlet at the side of the island. She cuts pats of butter and drops them onto the griddle to slowly melt on the ceramic nonstick surface as it heats up.
“All right, line cook, let’s see what you can do,” she says to Fallon, offering him a ladle from the glazed stoneware rooster pitcher that holds the cooking utensils.
“Time to watch the master at work,” Fallon says, pouring batter in the shape of a heart.
Charlotte watches with rapt attention. “How do you do that? Mine all come out as weird blobs.”
“Lots of practice.”
Christopher multitasks and switches out coffee mugs. Starting the process over again, he adds water to the repository and pops in a new pod. “Can you make one look like a car?”
“I can try,” Fallon replies, flipping the pancake with a flick of the wrist.
“Oh! Make a butterfly for Mom. She’d love that,” Charlotte says.
“Bacon’s ready.” Christopher carefully transfers the sizzling strips over to a plate covered with paper towels to soak up the excess grease.
Charlotte steals a piece and eats it. “Go out and grab some flowers from the garden.”
“You go out and do it.”
She smacks him with the spatula in her hand. “I’m busy, douchecanoe.”
“You’re just standing there, watching him cook.”
“I’m supervising.”
Fallon smiles when they start squabbling. Welcome to my mornings.
I don’t realize he notices me standing there until I catch his blue gaze on me. His smile softens, and for one long, lingering second, it’s just the two of us sharing this moment of something as simple as preparing breakfast.
“Smells really good in here,” I comment to announce my presence.
Holding the spatula high, Charlotte pirouettes like a ballerina. “We’re making pancakes!”
Knowing me well, Christopher brings me a cup of coffee, and I kiss his cheek good morning. “Thanks, bud.”
His keen awareness fixates on Ryder’s sweatshirt that I’m wearing, and he glances over his shoulder at Fallon. “You didn’t sleep on the couch last night,” he says in a low whisper.
Unsure of how to navigate what could quickly become a field of emotional landmines, I take a sip of coffee. “Slept in the guest room. Is Marcus not up yet?”
“Out in the garage.”
Fallon gives me a knowing nod before I even say anything. I like how we can have an entire conversation without speaking a word.
Taking my coffee with me, I step out onto the veranda, the sun’s rays bleeding pink and yellow across the cloud-dotted sky, their light instantly warming my face. Tall stalks of sunflowers that I had planted in the vegetable garden have their happy faces tipped at an angle to soak up the early morning sunlight. I’ll cut one and take it to Ryder’s grave after breakfast.
The right garage bay is open, Marcus bent over the engine of my Hellcat. Metal clangs on metal, and I hear a grumbled “son of a bitch” when I approach.
Every time I walk inside the garage, I immediately feel Ryder. It’s a weird sensation, like tiny pinpricks on my skin. I loved watching him work on cars. I’d sit out here with him, music cranked loud, and we’d talk while he tinkered. He would often stop what he was doing to kiss me or take me in his arms and dance with me if a slow song started playing over the radio. Ryder gave me an eternity of wonderful memories.
I take a seat on a nearby stool. “Stella being difficult today?”
Marcus straightens and wipes his hands clean on a shop rag. I immediately notice the small scab on his middle knuckle that wasn’t there yesterday. I’ll ease into how he got that in a minute.
“A little sassy, but nothing I can’t handle.”
