“Ah ha,” I exclaimed, yanking the cheddar from the fridge and holding it above my head like I just pulled Excalibur from the stone.
Minnie McGee was not impressed.
“Nobody asked your opinion, prissy princess,” I scoffed as she flexed her front paw and proceeded to give herself a bath.
Green and red peppers came next, and I turned the front burner to medium and tossed a pat of butter in the pan before chopping the veggies. The oven beeped, and I slid the cookie sheet of bacon inside, setting the timer for thirty-five minutes.
“That’s the secret, your royal spinster,” I said, bowing low and then flourishing a pink silicone whisk in her direction. “Bacon is superior when made in the oven.”
Emma never appreciated the names I used, so I wouldn’t have to call Minerva, well, Minerva—and her royal chunkiness seemed to agree. Not that I cared—the white marshmallow in the corner could look as annoyed as she liked that I’d interrupted her morning routine. I’d still be her favorite human and have her eating from my hands once the smell of bacon filled the kitchen.
Chocks kept silent on the matter, choosing to sulk in the corner and evaluate my cooking skills.
She narrowed her eyes and observed me, as befitting her royal station—and several first-place blue ribbons—as opposed to, say, how a cat might observe two mating praying mantis’ moments before the female ripped the male’s head directly from his thorax. I ignored her patronizing glare and grabbed a loaf of sourdough from the bread box beside the coffee maker.
Emma was one of those weird people who took her coffee black—blah—but she normally had a bottle of sweetened creamer on the fridge door. Or at least sugar in the pantry.I grabbed two mugs from the cabinet along with her lactose medicine as I heard the shower down the hall.Perfect timing.
By the time she made her way here, the bacon would be crispy and the bread toasted. Hopefully, the water and tablets I left beside the bed would curb some of her hangover symptoms. In the meantime, I’d finish breakfast and my battle of wills with the smushed-faced creature that passed judgment from the corner.
When the timer beeped—like Pavlov’s experiment—my mouth watered, and I slid on the matching pink oven mitts to take out the bacon. Cinnamon and sugar from the coffee, mixed with the sizzling scent of bacon, made the kitchen smell delicious, and snuck a bite of the bread as a throat cleared behind me.
“I didn’t realize you stayed until I smelled the coffee,” Emma said, leaning in the doorway. Her hair was damp, and she wore a skimpy pair of pajamas. She dragged her bottom lip between her teeth and tilted her head before pushing off the frame and padding her way into the kitchen. I grabbed her fresh mug of coffee from the counter and passed it over, watching as she wrapped her hands around the unicorn mug and breathed in the aroma.
“Oh my. That hits the spot. Thank you, Miller.”
“You got it, baby. Sit down, and let’s eat while everything is still hot.”
She nodded, grabbing my plate and portioning out the eggs and bacon while I buttered the bread and added more creamer to my coffee. We worked around each other like we’d done this dance a thousand times, and I watched her from my peripheral vision, humming something tuneless as she salted the eggs and pushed the hot sauce toward me. This whole thing was oddly domesticated, and I rubbed my chest, trying to make sense of the unfamiliar feelings.
Sure, we’d had sleepovers. Hell, when I got the flu last February, she willingly exposed herself to my snot and otherunpleasant bodily functions for the better part of seventy-two hours, so I wouldn’t have to be alone. My own mother wouldn’t set foot in my place—and at the first sign of a sniffle, Magnum high-tailed it out of there quicker than a cat lapping chain lightning. But that was different, right?
This was well past the norm of our friendship and directly into something dangerous. I couldn’t pinpoint why this was strange, weird, and a dozen other adjectives I wasn’t awake enough to think of, but it was.
“Thank you for leaving the ice water and medicine beside the bed. I didn’t realize how carried away I got last night.”
She let out this breathy little huff, causing the damp locks framing her face to rustle. My eyes focused on the half-dry golden curls the color of a sunrise, and I furrowed my brows, agitated. My foot bounced under the table, and I took a gulp of coffee, relishing the way it burned my mouth. I focused on the pain, pushing down whatever was bubbling and gurgling in my chest.
“And for breakfast. And the coffee, of course,” she continued like I wasn’t having a crisis of unknown origin about why I felt so weird.
Weird? Was that the right word? Probably not. More like windblown or off course. Whatever this was, I didn’t like it. I had no problem going with the flow down easy street, but I needed to knowat leastthe general direction. Emma and I were always clear on the direction—friends. It worked. It was right. It was easy. But this? This new morning after adventure, my brain decided to veer left onto a track bound to be intercepted—or derailed.
“I should text the girls and then figure out my next steps.” She picked up her phone from beside her plate, then huffed again and placed it face down, pushing the last bite of bacon away from her and laying her head on the smooth wood of the table.
“What next steps?” I asked, swallowing and pressing my tongue to the roof of my mouth to stop it from burning.
“Oh, gosh. That’s right. It would be too much to hope that yesterday was a dream…” Her voice trailed off as if she hadn’t figured out where her thoughts were going.
It wasn’t like her to measure her words, so I waited with a piece of sourdough partway to my mouth.
“Ah. So, there was a reason for last night’s overindulgence?”
“I wasn’t—”
“Come on, Em. Everyone knows you are a two-drink kind of girl.”
“Yeah. I guess I did overindulge a bit, didn’t I?”
She turned her head to look at me, and although she got a decent night’s sleep, I could see purple smudges underneath her eyes and a tightness to her features now that the giddiness of alcohol was missing.
