“You cannot look at me like that over breakfast.”
“Like what?”
“Like you're the feral raccoon and I'm a strawberry Pop-Tart.”
Kit gasps, but humor is tucked into the curve of his lips. “Too soon, Bowen.”
I'm considering going back into his room and living there permanently, but Kit rolls his eyes at the top of the stairs and grabs my hand, tugging me along.
I look down at our entwined fingers and swallow thickly. He smirks at me over his shoulder, and his fingers try to loosen to break the hold, but I squeeze them firmly.
Not happening. His hand fits perfectly in mine.
His dad already saw me on top of him this morning. The hickey is still fading on his pale throat. I think they'll survive seeing us hold hands, though I'm not sure I'd make it without holding his hand now.
I'll tell him after breakfast.
It smells like bacon and pancakes when we walk into the kitchen. Mary is standing at the oven, humming along to a tune only she can hear. Pat is sitting at the kitchen table by the patio glass doors, reading a paper and sipping his coffee.
So fucking normal. It all feels surreal. Like I'm just a kid again, coming downstairs for breakfast after staying up way too late watching movies and eating candy. Only this time, there was no movie, and the only thing I ate was their kid.
“Morning, boys,” Mary singsongs, grinning. Warmth. Mary Meyer has always been so warm and welcoming. She would kiss our scraped knees as kids, just like she would for her own kids. She always stayed stocked on our favorite snacks and bought me cherry juice boxes even though the rest of the kids liked the fruit punch.
I should have come around more. Or at all the last two years. The best I've done is answer when they call and throw something on the grill when they tagged along with my ma to the lake. They all pretended they were just visiting, but I know they were scouting for any hints that I wasn't okay.
Good thing they all stayed away from the small cabin.
Kit walks me over to the counter and uses his free hand to grab a piece of bacon off the plate next to Mary. He eats half, then feeds me the other half. Mary turns back to the stove with an even bigger grin.
Am I fuckingblushingright now? I don't blush.
“We're not gonna be weird about this, right?” Kit asks no one in particular. He narrows his eyes in a faux serious glare at his mom, then his dad.
Pat doesn't even look up from his paper when he says, “I expected to walk in on that a long time ago, kid.”
Yep. My cheeks are on fire.
Kit shoots me a look, like he wants me to commiserate with him, but he does a double-take.
“Don't even say it.”
He throws his head back and laughs, dragging me with him to the kitchen table. I refuse to let go of his hand, so we awkwardly pull out chairs and stretch the hold so we can both slide on opposite sides. As soon as we settle, I pull our joined hands to my thigh.
Mary sets out the food and pinches Kit's cheek when she pours orange juice into his glass. I offer to take the pitcher from her, but she waves me away, filling mine too.
They chat about nothing important. Kit tells his mom about the help wanted sign he had seen at the bookstore, and Pat tells him the coffee shop is always hiring. The fact that he's talking about finding a job should make me feel good. If he's talking about a future here, that means he's not going to leave. But my leg is bouncing with the steady thrum of anxiety coursing through me.
“And how about you, Bowen? When does school start back up?” Pat asks, setting his fork on his empty plate and sitting back, rubbing his stomach.
I clear my throat, and Kit rubs the back of his hand over my thigh. I stop bouncing it and start up with the other. “I actually have a faculty meeting tomorrow morning. School starts Tuesday.”
Only my second year as a teacher, and I'm already failing. I have absolutely nothing prepared, and here I am, chasing my heart around the state like I don't have shit to plan.
Kit swings his head over to look at me, and my stomach swoops. “You're leaving today?”
The panic is there, and I want to pull his mouth to mine and reassure him, but fuck, I feel it too.
“Yeah, kitten.” I squeeze his hand and rub my thumb over his skin. It does nothing to ease the intense look on his face. He's looking at me so hard, like he's willing his thoughts to travel right from his brain into mine.
