“No; she's such a miserable child when she's tired,” he answered without looking back. “She’s not fussy; she’ll happily eat them cold. . . but if she does want them warm, I can make more.”
“You like being in the kitchen.” I dipped a perfectly cut chunk of pancake into the small bowl of syrup at its side.So sweet, so good.
“I do.”
“Would you like to be a chef if the vet thing doesn’t work out?”
“I don't know. I don't exactly make anything restaurant worthy.”
“With a little guidance.”
He turned to me, an insincere smile on lips, appreciative of my pathetic attempt at small talk. “Maybe. . . but veterinary medicine is where my heart is at. Though no one is going to pay tuition fees.”
I placed another syrup-glossed chunk on my tongue, and my tastebuds danced. . . as amazingly as my father—a man who supported all my hopes and dreams.
“My father wants me to work with him. I don’t even know how I’ll get out of it.” He lowered his head, realizing that speaking of Ville would make me uncomfortable.
I pushed my feelings aside, probing. “And what does he do exactly?”
“Something to do with traffic management. I’m not sure.”
The words hit me with the impact of a truck, the pancake getting stuck in my dry throat as I tried to swallow. I almost choked.
Traffic. . . Ville worked in traffic. . . trafficking.
That was why there wereother girls. That was how he got me.
“I should have gotten drinks.” Woodrow’s comment came as my hand reached for my throat, trying to dislodge my discomfort. A feeling he knew well. “I'll get you something.”
I called him back as his hand turned the doorknob, my throat now clear of its congestion. “Woodrow. . .”
He turned back to me, the morning light shining onto his handsome face through the parted curtains. I didn’t know what say. . . well, I didn’t know how to say it. There was no easy way of saying your father is involved in human sales.
“Believe in your dreams. You can be more than he is.” I smiled a small smile.
I couldn’t be sure Woodrow would ever find college funding. I couldn’t be sure he would be able to work with his conditions, but I knew one thing, if he was able to get a job, it was easy to see that it wouldn’t be in trafficking. I knew that for a fact. . . even after what had happened the other night. The guilt would rip him to shreds, and all hisalterswould drain out with the blood he’d spill. . . leaving him to deal with the trauma.
“I'm not sure anyone would hire someone like me. But I can dream. And hopefully, I’ll have a future where my home life is good.” He sighed heavily. “I could settle for that. Cooking at home, surrounded by cats and dogs, a pretty wife singing as we laugh with each other, making a mess of whatever we were trying to cook.” His tone dropped, his eyes too, back to the carpet, carefully avoiding the stains. “My parents never do that. They never do anything together. They don't bond. That's not what I want. I don't want to be like them.”
I nodded, daring another piece of pancake, hoping that this one wouldn't attempt to kill me.
He stepped out of the room, back a second later, barely able to look at me as he found enough courage to whisper the words, “You're a good singer, Moonlight.”
And then he was gone again, silent steps carrying him away.
I finished off my pancake, swallowing as much as I could in three mouthfuls before moving on to the next, leaving two others on the plate for Nessie.
I thought over how he must have been listening at the door lastnight as I sang his sister to sleep.
I stepped out into the hallway; the dust and shadows didn’t shy away from the misery seeping from my every pore. No doubt as soon as Wynter was up and about, able to hop on that leg, I’d be given orders to rid them of their current habitat.
I wouldn’t wait for her instruction; I’d clean today—a needed distraction.
I gazed back to the stain I’d left on the rug. Gone. Woodrow really had taken care of it. I guess he needed the distraction, too.
I stopped dead, only inches from the door to Wynter’s room. I could hear movement beyond the wood, and it prevented me from knocking, my hand floating in thin air. I retracted, the question I had for her—to ask how she was?—still floating in my mouth as I stepped away and rushed for the stairs.
I found Woodrow in the kitchen, his back to me as he poured two glasses of chocolate milk. His hands were shaking again as he set down the carton. With a glass in each hand, he turned to me, and my presence had him spooked.
