I shove Trent away. My towel unravels. Trent catches the ends just in time and I grab hold of them as he spins into the pantry, pulling down the flour container.
Sara covers a laugh with her palm as I call out, “I wanted to make pancakes with crispy bacon for you. But there’s zero bacon in the fridge.”
“That is upsetting.”
Trent pushes the flour into my hands. “Pancakes without bacon will have to do.”
I grimace at the flour and shoot Trent a terrified look. “Probably shouldn’t cook dressed like this. How about you take over?”
Sara’s eyes are on us, so I... give him my best puppy-dog, you love me look.
And when Grandpa rounds into the kitchen, I shove the container back to Trent with a monosyllabic, “You.”
Trent quietly sucks in an oof.
Grandpa snickers. “How many eggs do we need? I’ll grab ‘em. Nice you came around, Sara. You’re staying for brekkie, I hope?”
I cry-laugh inside and stare daggers at Trent, who evades my gaze, whipping up an apron.
I sneak out of the danger zone and shove on a T-shirt and shorts. I’m tempted to hide in the bedroom until the last possible moment, but... I’m also curious at Trent’s ability to navigate these waters.
I sneakily return.
Sara is picking up Trent’s wallet from the kitchen counter, whispering for him to get rid of the evidence.
I still at the postcard wall as Trent wedges out a Polaroid picture from his wallet. A shiver slinks through my middle. It’s the one he won in poker. Of us.
In his wallet. Not Grandpa’s.
Trent glances over her shoulder at me and slides the picture into his back pocket. My breath tightens behind my ribs.
Sara tells Trent she needs the bathroom and that he should get cooking quickly. She passes me with a smirk while Trent calls out, “Come help me, babe?—”
The bathroom door shuts behind Sara just as Grandpa returns. And smooth as ever, Trent turns the tide mid-word, “—by brother.”
I’m left in the backwash.
He really is something else.
He picks up another apron and wrestles me into it. “This morning you’re going to help me.”
I stop trying to dodge and laugh in his face. “I’m already helping you, Trenty dear.”
“Trendy gear,” Trent says with a swinging look at Grandpa setting down a basket of eggs. He bats invisible dust off my apron. “Very trendy on you.”
Trent steers me around the kitchen, leaning in close whenever Sara looks over and Grandpa is busy, and barking out orders whenever Grandpa dares a glance. I’m oscillating between slippery shivers at his breath sliding over my ear, and jumpy shivers at his sudden shifts away.
Twenty minutes later, I’m standing before a smoking, sizzling pan while Trent yanks all the windows open.
Sara finds the whole thing highly amusing, while Grandpa nods and points to the mess. “Domestic bliss. Isn’t this the life?”
And Trent stares out at the back garden and the chicken pen, lines on his face tightening. Switching between boyfriendand brother is a strain on him. Tiring. His hand trembles on the window clasp, forcing a small protesting squeal from the metal.
But just as I lean in to whisper, to ask if he’s alright?—
He spins once more into the chaos, the seal on this bottle extra thick.
And I think: he might be the better actor.
