Page 26 of Property of Booker

“She won’t be mad,” I confirm, my chest tightening. I gently nudge the door shut until it clicks, blocking the view of the bed. “And from now on, you don’t have to keep watch over anyone’s sleep but your own. You hear me?”

He nods, though he keeps a hand near his side as if waiting for a strike that isn't coming. I let it go for now. I can’t fix years of hell in ten minutes, but I can make sure his next meal doesn't come with a side of trauma. I guide him toward the kitchen, my hand resting on his shoulder, firm and steady. “Let's go,” I murmur, “and don't worry about the door. It's time for you to just be a boy.”

I guide him to the kitchen through the main room that’s luckily empty. Usually, men are passed out from a drunken stupor and I’m not sure he’s ready to see that just yet. He’s still adjusting to not having to have his every move dictated for him.

“Do you like cereal or would you like scrambled eggs and toast? Those are your only options since I’m not familiar with a kitchen.” I tease as I go through the pantry to see what brands we have in stock. We usually have a wide variety since Elodie eats here sometimes before her school day begins.

Kolter stands by the island, watching me like I’m handling a bomb. He doesn’t answer right away. I start digging through the cabinets, pushing aside boxes of protein bars and half-empty bags. I pull out a carton of eggs from the fridge and a loaf of bread from the counter so he sees there’s options and he gets to make the final decision.

“Cereal’s easier,” I admit, tossing a box of flakes on the counter. “But eggs are better for you. You pick. I’m not gonna bite.”

He looks at the carton, then back to the cereal. “Eggs sound good, I think.”

I nod. “Eggs it is.”

I fumble with the frying pan. It’s been ages since I cooked anything more complicated than heating up leftovers. I crack an egg against the rim, and a stray piece of shell slips in. I fish it out with my finger, cursing under my breath. Kolter’s eyes widen.

“You’re doing fine,” I praise, catching his look. “It just takes a minute to get the hang of it.”

“I can help,” he offers quietly. “Jerome always made me cook his meals.”

The air in the room stills. I set the spatula down, feeling that familiar, ugly rage pulse at the back of my neck. I turn to face him, my expression neutral, forcing the heat out of my eyes.

“Not here, Kolter,” I insists, keeping my voice low. “You’re done with that. From here on out, you’re just a guest. You don’t cook for anyone, and you don’t clean up after anyone. You’re just a kid again. You get that?”

He looks down, his hands clenching at his sides. “But what do I do?”

“You sit there,” I tell him, pointing to a stool. “You watch me struggle with these eggs, you laugh at how bad I am at it, and then you eat. That’s your only job for today.”

He stares at me, searching for the lie. When he doesn’t find one, a small, barely there smile touches his lips. It’s the first real spark I’ve seen in him.

“You’re really bad at it,” he mumbles.

I grin. “Told you. You’re gonna have to eat burnt toast or runny eggs, so don't blame me when your stomach hates me later.”

He actually giggles, a soft, rusty sound. It’s not much, but it’s a start. Kendall comes skidding into the room, her hair resembling a rat’s nest as she pants, searching for her son. She spots Kolter and the air leaves her lungs in a rush. She takes a shaky step forward, her hands hovering as if she’s scared to break the fragile peace.

“I woke up and the bed was empty,” she blurts, her voice frayed. “I didn’t know where you went.”

I hold up a hand, keeping my movements slow so I don’t spook her. “It’s alright, Kendall. He’s fine. We’re just making breakfast.”

Kolter spins on the stool, his smile fading into concern when he sees her distress. “I’m okay, Mom. Booker’s showing me how to cook eggs.”

She looks from him to me, the frantic energy slowly draining from her frame as she processes the scene. She lets out a tremulous breath, her shoulders sagging. “You’re really okay?”

“Yeah. I’m fine, Mom,” Kolter replies, his voice gaining a bit of steady ground. Changing the subject, he makes fun of me by telling her, “He’s really bad at it, but he’s trying.”

I chuckle, scraping the messy eggs onto a plate. “See? I’m already getting roasted by the kid. That’s a sign I’m doing something right.”

Kendall walks over, her gaze still lingering on her son like she’s memorizing that he’s actually there. She reaches out and brushes a stray hair from his forehead, her touch trembling. “You scared me,” she admits, staring at him.

“I didn’t mean to,” Kolter whispers, looking down at his feet.

“It’s my fault,” I interject, sliding the plate of questionable eggs toward him. “I didn’t think he’d need to check in with you before grabbing a bite. Won’t happen again.”

She offers a weak, grateful smile. “Thank you.”

“Grab a seat,” I suggest, pulling another stool out for her with my foot. “There’s plenty.”