“Sleeping.”
“Sleeping,” I say. “And you’re just, what... roaming around my house? Why?”
“I’m hungry,” she says again.
“So you stare at me instead of eating something? What kind of sense does that shit make?”
She shrugs. Again.
I blink at her, thinking maybe if I wait she’ll figure out what she’s doing, but we’re talking about Scarlet’s kid. Should’ve known better. She’d probably stand here all goddamn day waiting for me to get my shit together and make sense of things for her.
“I, uh... okay. You want some food?”
“Yes, please.”
Please.
She whipped out the manners on me.
Who can say no to that?
Well, hell, I easily could, but I’m not going to.
I shove to my feet, stretching before strolling out of the living room, heading down the hallway to the kitchen. The kid follows me, right on my heels, marching along like we’re part of a goddamn parade or something.
It’s way too early for this shit.
5:27 a.m.
That’s what the clock in the kitchen tells me when I glance at it.
“What are you hungry for? What do you want?”
I don’t have to look at her to know she’s shrugging. Her silence gives that away. I glance around the pantry, scowling. Seeing as my brother is moving out in a matter of days, he hasn’t bothered going to the store, which means we’re running short on shit that’s convenient, unless the kid likes raisins.
“You like raisins?” I ask, glancing behind me as I hold up a bag of trail mix, most of the mix part gone, leaving half a bag of pretty much just raisins at this point. Sasha slides up onto a chair at the kitchen table, so damn short her legs dangle, and makes a face at my question, clearly not a fan. “Yeah... me, neither.”
I look at the bag again before tossing it in the trashcan.
“You don’t have any allergies, do you?” I ask, realizing I should’ve probably asked that first.
“What’s that?”
“Allergies, you know... some people are allergic to peanuts, which means peanuts can kill them, so they can’t eat them. You got anything like that? Anything that can kill you?”
“Lots.”
Shit. “Really? Like what?”
“Guns.”
I look at her, brow furrowing. “Guns?”
“Guns can kill people.”
The little walking, talking PSA stares at me, not being a smart ass about that at all, simply answering my question. I almost forgot what it was like dealing with a kid. Almost.
“Allergic to guns... got it,” I mutter, moving on to the fridge. “No foods that can kill you?”
She hesitates before saying, “Porridge.”
“Porridge?” What the hell? “What kind of porridge?”
Again, she hesitates, before saying, “All the kinds.”
I glance at her, eyes narrowed. “You’re telling me porridge will kill you if you eat it?”
She nods adamantly.
I’m pretty sure she’s bullshitting, but I can’t call her bluff. She’s only five, for fuck’s sake. If I try to make her eat some, to prove she’s lying, I might accidentally kill her, and we can’t be having that.
Besides, it’s not like I have the shit around here to make porridge. What do I look like, Oliver Twist?
“No porridge, then. I won’t ever feed you it.”
She grins, a smug little smile. Manipulative little shit.
“Okay, look, kid... I’ll be straight with you. We’ve got bologna, we’ve got fish sticks, and we’ve got a bunch of shit to maybe make a salad in here.”
She makes another face.
Doesn’t sound good to me, either.
“You don’t have breakfast?” she asks. “Lucky Charms?”
“No, but I can probably make pancakes.”
Her eyes widen, her expression brightening.
Ding, ding, ding.
“Pancakes, it is,” I say, gathering what I need. Truth be told, I could make pancakes in my sleep with how often I’ve made these things for Leo.
Sasha kicks her legs impatiently as I whip up the batter, her heels banging against the legs of the chair.
“You want some kind of something in these pancakes? We’ve got...” I glance around. Shit. “Looks like we have some chocolate chips.”
She gasps. “Can I? Please?”
“Yeah,” I say, grabbing the bag of chocolate chips, dumping the whole fucking thing in the batter.
As I wait for the pan to heat up, I grab a tangerine.
“Can I have some of that, too?” she asks, watching me.
I grab another tangerine and walk over, rolling it to her on the table. She picks it up, eyeing it warily, clutching it tightly as her gaze turns back to me. I peel my tangerine, tossing the scraps on the counter, and pull out a segment to eat as the pancakes start to cook.
“Ugh, how do you do this?” she grumbles.
I look at her as she claws at the tangerine, poking a hole, her finger going right through it as juice drips out onto the table. “Never peeled a tangerine before?”
“I don’t know,” she says, frustrated. “I just wanna open the orange.”
Laughing under my breath, I walk over again, taking the tangerine and starting to peel it, showing her how to do it so she can finish the rest. “It’s a tangerine, not an orange.”
“It’s not an orange?”
“It’s more of a mandarin,” I tell her. “They’re all citrus fruit, but tangerines are smaller than a normal orange.”
She glares at it, looking skeptical. “How does it taste?”
“Like an orange.”
She gives me a look that says, ‘Are you fucking kidding me? What was your point?’
I’m so preoccupied with the tangerine that I burn the first pancake, having to toss it out. I focus after that, still trying to wake up, stacking up nearly a dozen pancakes on a platter. As soon as they’re finished, I grab some plates and turn around, freezing when I look at Sasha.
The kid’s a fucking mess.
Juice drips from her chin, smeared on her face, even somehow finding its way into her unbrushed hair. Tangerine covers the table in front of her, clinging to her shirt, like she fucking bathed in the juice. She licks her fingers, not at all bothered, her eyes lighting up when she sees the pancakes. I slap a few on a plate in front of her, ignoring the tangerine as I give her a fork.
Sitting down across the table, I hand her a bottle of syrup, watching as she drowns the pancakes in it and dives right in. I eat some, just folding the fuckers over like tacos, not bothering with silverware.
If I thought she was a mess before, it’s got nothing on her now. Mess on top of mess on top of mess. Sticky syrup and melted chocolate cover her—on her hands, on her face, on her clothes. I watch incredulously as she drops her fork and jumps down out of the chair, licking her fingers once more. My gaze follows her as she heads straight for the fridge, leaving a chocolate covered handprint on the door handle as she opens it.
She doesn’t say shit. Not a goddamn word.
She reaches right inside, helping herself to a Capri Sun.
“Give me one of those,” I say, holding my hand out, a sticky juice pouch landing in my palm.