“Actually, now that I think about it, I would enjoy some food now,” he says politely. “Toast should be fine.”
The fuck?
What is happening? This guy just waltzes into my life without so much as ahowyoudoingand demands I make him fucking toast? Who does he think he is? Does he expect me to be his errand bitch? Because that’s not happening.
He yawns, then stretches his short arms over his head, his mouth opening in a little O as he lets out a soft squeak.
Fuck that was adorable.
I guess I can make him some toast. It’s not like it’s that hard. Simply pop the bread into the toaster and then butter it when it’s done. Easy. I wonder if he likes jelly. I’ll put it on one slice and leave the other plain just in case.
The house creaks, finding amusement in my easy acceptance of being a slave to a phoenix child. Traitor.
When I finish adding the jelly, I hand him the plate. He accepts it with a dignified satisfaction that looks odd on his childlike face. He takes a careful bite and closes his eyes as asmall sigh escapes him. He wiggles a little, his happiness coming out in the form of a tiny dance. A ripple of heat passes quickly through the air before a puff of smoke appears above his head, followed by a tiny orange feather that lands gently on the couch next to him.
He sheds. Okay. That’s… a thing that is happening.
Moving on.
Leaning back against the counter, I watch him eat his toast, chuckling quietly when he drips jelly on his shirt.
“Your uncle was a good friend to me, and he trusted that you would do the right thing. I think he’s happy in the afterlife knowing you are following through on his wishes.” He brushes crumbs off his shirt. “I know that it won’t replace what you’ve lost, or rather who you never got to know, but he had faith in you.”
“He did?” I ask.
“When Sunshine inherits, the phoenix clause will sort itself out, Ember,” he says in a breathy old man voice. “That’s what he said the last time we talked.”
Who the fuck gives all their earthly belongings to a stranger and assumes everything will be sorted out in the wash? Fucking crazy people. That’s who. And judging by the furnishings and décor of this place, my uncle was a crazy fucking person.
Maybe I’m crazy too. I agreed to the clause without much fight. And I like the colorful homie feel of the upstairs living area.
“I’m the Ember he was referring to, by the way,” he adds, popping each finger into his mouth to clean off the jelly.
“Huh?”
“My name. Ember.” He furrows his brow in mock concern, touching a hand to his chest. “My. Name. Is. Ember.”
“Yeah, I got that,” I reply tiredly, rubbing my eyes until I see little flashes of light behind my eyelids. If I keep rubbing and force my fingers through my brain, do I still have to deal with the hot mess that is my life?
The house creaks faintly as if laughing.
Chapter Three
Sunshine
Avoidance is my favorite pastime and best coping strategy, because if I keep moving, I don’t have to think about the phoenix child asleep on my couch.
Downstairs in the mortuary is where I decide to spend my day. The fluorescent lights flicker when I flip the switch, buzzing overhead as if debating whether I’m worth the electricity required to stay on.
“Don’t be rude,” I mutter as they finally settle into a weak, flickering glow.
The stainless-steel prep tables are covered in a gray film of dust so thick I could probably write my name in it.
Actually…
With a careful swipe of my finger across the surface, I carve a bold line through the caked-on dust, leaving my name behind. I dot the i with a flourish, taking a step back to admire my handiwork.
sunshine
