“Sounds good to me,” I say. “How about you, buddy?”
“Sure,” he says somberly, staring at the granite.
I glance at Jordan, who’s already looking at me.
She mouths something. I don’t know what, but concern’s written all over her face.
It’s hard seeing him like this.
When Cole used to come to New York to visit me, he was always aten out of ten on the energy scale. Even in the mornings. Excited. Happy. Ready for adventure.
He’s a solid two right now. And I’m being generous.
“We don’t have to go anywhere,” Jordan says. “We could always just hang out here, too. Order in. Watch movies. Play games. Whatever you want, bud.”
He smiles softly, but it’s gone just as fast.
Shit. This sucks. I hardly know how to navigate my own grief, let alone help a twelve-year-old with his.
“We can go to the lake,” he says finally. “My dad and I liked to go to this chicken place on the pier. Can we go there for lunch?”
“Definitely,” I say without hesitation, at the same time Jordan gives a resoundingyes. Don’t know what the hell she’ll eat, but she’ll figure it out.
“Do those pancakes need to be flipped?” Jordan asks.
“Ah, shit,” I mutter, sliding the spatula under one. I flip it.
It’s black.
Jordan laughs softly, her brows lifting toward Cole as she makes a face.
“Don’t,” I warn. “I can make pancakes. I got distracted.”
“I don’t know,” she says in sing-song voice. “We might be going out for breakfast, too.”
Cole laughs.
“I got this,” I say sternly. “Best pancakes of your life coming up.”
I toss the black pancakes and pour more batter onto the griddle, scolding myself to pay attention this time.
Jordan grabs her phone and taps away at it. A few seconds later, Michael Jackson’s “Billie Jean” is playing through the speakers in the ceiling.
“I love this song,” Cole says, his mood lifting significantly.
“Really?” Jordan says. “But do you know how to moonwalk?”
He smirks. “I’m a pro at the moonwalk,” he says, all confidence.
“What?” I say. “How do you even know what the moonwalk is?”
“YouTube.”
I fold my arms across my chest. “Prove it.”
“Matt. The pancakes,” Jordan says.
“Fuck.”
