“Do I have to beat him up?” Parker asks, entirely serious. “Because if he hurt my baby sister, I will kick his ass.”
“No! No.” I swallow a nervous sip of coffee. “Definitely not necessary. We parted amicably.”
Amicably?
What am I, a cast member of Downton Abbey?
“Amicably,” Parker repeats slowly, like he doesn’t quite believe me.
Probably because I’m lying through my teeth.
“Uh, yeah.” I take another sip, mind racing. “He, uh, left. For Doctors Without Borders!” I exclaim, latching onto the thread of my previous lie in desperation. “I’m here and Diego, well, he’s off… saving people… and stuff.” Are my cheeks on fire? I think they’re on fire. “So… we had to break up. But it was…”
“Amicable,” Parker finishes for me.
“Yeah,” I confirm weakly.
Nate’s grip tightens even more on his mug. I wish I knew what that meant.
Parker stares at me like I’ve gone mad. “O—kay. Now that that’s all cleared up…” He turns to Nate. “What about you, my friend? Still flying solo? Last time I was here, you were basically celibate.”
I choke on my coffee. I’m so surprised, the sip in my mouth shoots straight up my nasal passages and out my nose. I sit there, spluttering like a fool, and Parker bursts out laughing, the bastard.
“Need a sippy cup, sis?” He slaps me on the back.
Nate silently hands me a napkin, mouth twitching in a dangerous approximation of a smile as I continue to cough.
This makes him smile? Seriously?
I wipe my dripping nose and pray that this is all a dream. With Parker here, everything feels alarmingly like middle school all over again.
***
Later that night, I clean the kitchen while the boys talk, their voices hushed low. Every now and then, Parker will glance over at me with concern in his eyes, so I know they’re talking about me.
I do my best to ignore them.
My hair, still wet from a shower, is up in a towel. I’m finally back in my own clothes, looking sleek and sophisticated in a pair of ultra-slim black chinos, a fitted Gucci blouse, and coral Brain Atwood heels. I tell myself if I dress normal, I’ll feel normal.
For some reason, I’m not half as comfortable in the designer getup as I was in Nate’s simple black t-shirt.
I took my time beneath the water, examining the damage to my body. There’s a burn on the back of my neck, where my necklace was yanked off. My raw wrists, knees, and elbows are starting to scab over, though it’ll be a few days before they’re back to full working order. For the most part, my body looks totally fine.
My face is another story.
A dark bruise blooms from my right eye socket all the way to the hairline by my temple. It’s an ugly blue-black color — mottled red at the edges where my blood vessels burst. In the coming days, I expect it’ll run the full gamut of colors, from purple to green to yellow, before finally fading away.
How delightful.
Stomach rumbling, I raid Nate’s fridge in search of dinner. He’s got plenty of standard boy-fare — more beer, some leftover pizza, two uncooked steaks, seventeen thousand different kids of hot sauce — but I’m also pleasantly surprised to find chicken breasts, milk, cheese, and even — gasp — vegetables.
I grab the chicken, a lemon, and fresh parsley from the fridge, then root around his cabinets for the rest of my ingredients. Twenty minutes later, I’ve got water heating on the back burner and a simple chicken piccata — without capers because A. Nate didn’t have them and B. Ew, capers — sizzling in a skillet up front. I lower the heat, add another dash of chicken broth, and toss in a handful of chopped parsley for flavor. A peek into the back pot shows the water has reached a rolling boil — I dump in a generous handful of pasta.
Unless there’s been a drastic change in the boys’ eating habits, I’m guessing every morsel of this meal will be devoured in less than twenty minutes.