Brett.
“Okay?” she says in theI will take no bullshittone she had to perfect raising two boys by herself.
“Got it.”
“I know this is hard for you, honey. Kitis—”
“I said got it, Ma.” My eyes sweep over the living room. Empty.
She blows out a puff of air and then hums softly. “Okay. Well, I’ll talk to you in a few days.”
“Love you.”
“Love you too, honey.”
I hang up and pocket my phone before opening the fridge. I haven’t been to the store in days. Not since I got home the last time to find a piece of shit, rusted-out van in the driveway. I can’t believe that thing made it crossed state lines let alone around the fucking country for two years.
My temples throb, and I close my eyes briefly from the pain. He’s such a little dick for letting me find him passed out on the dock. My blood pressure spiked the moment I saw him lying there, and I don’t think it's gone down since.
But since I don’t have much left, I grab more eggs and other odds and ends left on the shelves to make omelets for dinner. I move around in the silent cabin and take on each task.
Grab bowl.
Crack eggs.
Throw away shells.
I circle my head around, trying to ease the tense muscles in my neck.
Add milk.
Add seasonings.
Whisk.
The bowl clanks against the counter when I set it down. My fingers slide into my hair, pushing back the rogue curls, and then I grip the counter and hang my head.
The cabin feels different. Nothing has changed. Nothing has moved. But it's different because I can feel him here.
I know he’s right down the hall.
A slow breath hisses through my teeth, and I push off the counter.
“Promise me you will try…”
Yeah, Ma. A lot of fucking good it did me the last time I tried.
Kit Meyer has been an enigma since he hit puberty. Suddenly, he was the most confusing fucking person I have ever met. He would say one thing, then look at me like I kicked a puppy when I did that thing. He would smile like I wrote him a sonnet one second and then act like my mere presence caused him physical pain the next.
I scrub my face and get to work on the omelets.
I manage to make it through half of the first one before a flash of him at the bottom of the stairs earlier flashes through my mind like a fucking jump scare. His panic-stricken face. That wide eyed look, like he was pleading with me tofix it.
Nothing is more terrifying than Kit Meyer.
Omelets and toast done, I stare at the two plates.
I drum my fingers against my thighs.
