Page 74

“Why don’t we try it and see?”

Instead, he sets his head on my shoulder. “Can you tell me about your mom?”

My heart squeezes. “No.”

“Your dad?”

“No.”

“Mine are assholes. Were yours assholes too?”

It’s the last thing I want to talk about, and it hurts to even answer the question. “No.”

I can feel that he wants to push for more, and I brace myself. Then, he goes in a different direction. “Can you teach me to cook?”

I turn to read his face, and he looks serious.

“You’re always talking about how I can’t look after myself. This is one way that I can.”

That’s true. And if he’s cooking for himself, it’s one less way that I’ll feel responsible for him. “I can do that.”

“Really?”

His whole face lights up, and I struggle to drag my eyes away. “It’s not hard.”

“We’ll see if you’re still saying that after you try to teach me.”

“You’ll pick it up quickly.”

He’s skeptical. “You think?”

I’d point out that he doesn’t give himself enough credit, but I don’t give him much either. Considering how Sasha has adapted to Wilde’s End much faster than I did, maybe that needs to change. Or maybe he’s exactly as helpless as I always thought he was, and we’re about to find out.

I want to be mad at Sasha’s parents for not teaching him how to cook, but as he mixes the batter and ends up with flour all over the countertop, his—my—hoodie, the floor, and even the window, I struggle to hold it against them. He’s just as messy at this as everything else. I’m beginning to suspect he has no motor skills, and what I’m seeing is all a lie.

Another trick.

“Keeping the flour in the mixing bowl is usually a good start,” I point out. I add more, then grab a cloth to deal with the chaos.

“Ooops.” He laughs and goes on stirring like the batter personally wronged him for something.

With patience I didn’t even know I had, I wrap my hand over his and slow his movements. “Like this. We’re mixing. Not attempting murder. You can be gentle.”

He stops fighting my control and falls into an easy stir. When I think it’s safe, I let go of his hand but don’t move away.

“Hey, it’s coming together.” There’s a hint of happy surprise in his tone that twinges something in my brain.

“It will do that.”

“It was so fast.”

“Cookies aren’t hard.”

Something about that makes him laugh. “You play with big knives, take on wild animals, believe in fairies, and bake cookies. What else should I know about you?”

“I make most of my own clothes.”

He drops the bowl, and I catch it in time. “What?”