“Yep,” he says, slapping the table before sliding out of the booth. “Now, let’s go get something to eat. I’m hungry.”
“But–”
“What about–”
Poem and Mom protest over each other, both scrambling to chase after him.
“He barely even got in trouble!” Poem whines.
“He’s never going to stop if there aren’t any consequences,” Mom reasons.
I frown, following them to the door. “My hand hurts,” I offer. “If that helps at all.”
Mom sniffs. “Yes, it really does.”
“Well, it doesn’t help me!” Poem complains. “I wanted to watch you get yelled at!” She pouts, and I take a large step away from her, scowling at her downturned lips. Get thee behind me, temptress.
“You can’t always get what you want, kit.” Unfortunately. “Why don’t you console yourself by closing down the bar floor?”
“Stop calling mekit,” she hisses, exactly like a little fox kit. All yowl, no claws.
“Stop acting like one,” I suggest.
“Poem is going to dinner with us,” Mom decides. “And so are you. You can close the bar floor by yourself when you get back.”
Poem sticks her tongue out at me, and I take another step away, glaring at her offensively enticing mouth.
She reels her tongue back in to blink cutely at my parents, eyelashes fluttering over her giant doe eyes. “I appreciate the invite,” she says sweetly. “But if there’s not going to be any scolding, I’m afraid I have to get home to finish up Amia’s cake before tomorrow.”
Dad’s lips turn down, dark brows furrowing in concern. “You need to eat.”
She smiles softly, squeezing his shoulder. “I will, don’t worry. I’ve got leftover pizza in the fridge.”
“You promise you’ll eat?” he pushes.
“That pizza has been calling for me all day,” Poem assures him. “It won’t survive the first ten minutes after I walk through my door, don’t you worry.”
My father, it seems, is easily appeased.
I am not.
“Maybe add a vegetable to your meal,” I suggest, eyeing the dip of her waist, where I know my hand fits perfectly—where I’d like it to continue to fit perfectly, against my better judgment. Something that won’t happen if she doesn’t properly feed herself. A single slice of pizza does not a handhold make.
Poem’s gaze narrows on me, and it occurs to me too late that my eyes on her body plus the words from my mouth would deliver a different message than the one I intended to send.
“Have you lost your mind today?” Mom asks, smacking me upside the head. “Apologize this instant!”
Flinching, I do. “I didn’t mean it like that, I swear. I would never.” I’m rude to her, sure, but I’m notthatrude.
Poem’s eyes roll. “Whatever,” she scoffs, turning to hug my parents goodbye. When they let her go, she turns to me. “For the record, the pizza has peppers on it. I am, as ever, the personification of health. Not that it’s any ofyourbusiness, you overgrown toad.”
With that, she sniffs, turns on her heel, and marches out of the bar.
I briefly consider sawing my eyes out of my skull so that the curve of Poem’s body pointedly swaying as she stomps away might be the last thing I ever see.
“Boy, you better pull yourself together, and quick,” Dad mutters before I can fetch my knife.
I do not entirely disagree with him.
