I have to look away from her.Sure, I’m letting her stay here, but that’s the bare minimum. She should be taken care of; she shouldn’t have to be an adult. She should be allowed to be a normal twenty-one-year-old, to throw a party, to do all the things that she never got to do while living at her parents’ house.
I don’t know how to tell her that without exposing how much I’ve been listening.
Maybe she’s a slightly more glamorized version of herself online than in person, but she’s still herself. She’s stillSloane. The girl who talks about the gym, food, body positivity, and mental health. The young woman who has inspired hundreds of thousands of other young adults because of her struggles and what she’s done to better herself.
That’s something to be proud of, and I’ll never understand how her parents don’t see it that way. Probably because she’s done it all on her own. She didn’t need their help to become who she is.
Kaden needed his dad to get him out of bed every morning, to drag him to basketball practice when he thought about quitting. Someone to practice with, someone to be able to relate to when college applications were due, and he didn’t know which of the twenty division one schools to choose from. Lottie needed both parents. A mom to enable her spoiled behavior, and a dad to write a glowing recommendation letter to get her into any law program she could dream of. Not Sloane, she picked a school far away and created this life on her own.
“Beck…” Her soft voice surprises me, as does the nickname, since she’s never called me that before.
Why does it make my heart beat faster, and my body feel all warm?I shouldn’t like the way it sounds, but I do.
“Shhhh, it’s ok. Just go back to sleep,” I whisper.
“Your food’s in the microwave,” she mumbles, rolling over and silently nuzzling her face into my hand. I doubt she even realizes that she’s doing it, since she’s still ninety percent asleep.
I let myself have this moment for just a few seconds before slowly pulling my hand away and moving wordlessly into the kitchen.
After my food is warmed, I take it into my office to eat so I don’t accidentally wake her up again. When I’m done, I work on some paperwork for a little bit before feeling the drowsiness take over. I head back into the living room and kitchen to put my plate in the dishwasher.
She’s still passed out on the couch. I think about picking her up and taking her to her room, but I think better of it and just head upstairs by myself.
I shower then climb into bed, curious about what tomorrow will look like. We’ve only had a few Sundays together, and I can’t say that I mind her being around.
Sundays are the one day off I get to relax and not go to work. The singular day that I had off on my six-day work week. Butnow my Sundays don’t look boring anymore. I have something to look forward to when I wake up, even if I hate myself for looking forward to seeing her.
I wake up a little after I normally do and head down into the kitchen to make breakfast. She’s not on the couch, and she’s not up yet. I look at the clock and see I have probably close to an hour before she makes her way downstairs.
I look at the recipe I found this morning for making gluten-free pancakes with all-natural ingredients that she’ll hopefully eat.
I start a fresh pot of coffee as I grab all the other items for breakfast.
I use only egg whites and a little oat milk; luckily, we have the right kind of flour, too.
I use chocolate chips in half of them, leaving the other half plain. I cook up some fried eggs and some turkey bacon before grabbing jam, butter, and syrup from the pantry.
She walks down the stairs close to eight o’clock, lets out a little yawn, and stretches. I find my eyes lingering slightly on her face. The soft, sleepy smile looks good. Actually, all of her smiles look good, and I think that I’ve gotten more in the last few weeks than in the twenty-one years I knew her before she moved in. Happiness looks really fucking good on her.
“Morning,” I mumble, turning back to the stove and finishing the bacon as she sits at the counter, looking away quickly before she catches me staring.
I grab a mug for her, filling both mine and hers with coffee. I leave mine black while I put a little bit of oat milk and sugar into hers before sliding it to her.
“What are you doing?” she asks, looking around at the mess I’ve made.
“I’m making breakfast.”
“I can see that, but why?”
“We need to eat, and I was up.”
Her smile is small as she brings her mug to her lips and takes a sip. I hear her let out a small sigh. “How do you know how I take my coffee?” she asks, her eyebrows scrunching together in confusion as she looks down at the cup in her hands. I pause for a moment as I turn with a plate of pancakes in my hand.
“You never make it any other way.”
At least not as far as I have ever seen. Not that we bond over coffee, but it’s the only way I’ve seen her make it since she’s been here. That or that weird green drink she makes that smells like fresh cut grass.
“You pay attention?”
