Total pages in book: 113
Estimated words: 106173 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 531(@200wpm)___ 425(@250wpm)___ 354(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 106173 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 531(@200wpm)___ 425(@250wpm)___ 354(@300wpm)
“Do you want me to open the closet door?” Kitty asks.
“Probably a good idea.” It also prevents me from using Kitty as a therapist.
Kitty crosses the room and slowly opens the door. The inside looks like any other closet that belonged to an eight-year-old boy. There’s a Nerf gun on the floor, clothes on hangers, an outfit tossed in a laundry basket.
Prince Francis disappears inside and returns less than thirty seconds later with a toy mouse in his mouth. He trots out of the room and down the hall, toward the living room.
“Well at least we can confirm that there is no portal to another dimension in the closet,” Kitty says, then grimaces. “Sorry, I shouldn’t be making jokes.”
“The levity is appreciated.”
“Well, that mystery is solved, I guess. I feel kind of silly that I immediately jumped to the whole ghost-portal to another dimension scenario, but to be fair, I’ve been reading some weird paranormal books lately.” Kitty pushes her glasses up her nose and opens her mouth to say something else.
Which is the exact moment my stomach rumbles like there’s a beast living inside it.
Her eyes go wide. “Was that your stomach?”
“Either that or I’ve swallowed a demi-gorgon.”
“Have you eaten dinner yet? Or maybe you just have an extremely high metabolism? My sister is a string bean, and she eats every two hours and can consume more food than most grown men without putting on an ounce. I clearly didn’t get the same genes.” She pats her curvy hip.
“I happen to like your genes, and I don’t mean the ones made out of denim.” I would like to summon a portal or maybe let the demi-gorgon in my stomach banish me to another realm until Kitty smiles.
Kitty narrows her eyes. “Are you making a joke, or is that a compliment?”
“Can it be both, but with a strong lean toward a compliment since the joke part is kind of cheesy?” I quirk a brow and give her a chagrined smile.
She bites her lip for a second, her grin widening. “Speaking of cheesy, I made bacon mac and cheese for dinner. There are lots of leftovers if you or the demi-gorgon living in your stomach is interested.”
My stomach rumbles again, but quieter this time. “My stomach likes the sound of that.”
“Come on, then. Let’s feed your beast.”
I follow Kitty to the kitchen. She pulls a huge casserole dish out of the fridge and scoops a generous amount onto a plate, then puts it in the microwave to reheat it. It’s a bit strange to watch her move around the kitchen with ease and surety, but she’s spent a lot more time here than I have recently, so it makes sense.
I hunt around in the cabinets for a glass. I find them next to the fridge. The same plastic ones my brother and I used when we were little are still on the lowest shelf. The adult glasses came from a garage sale, when gas stations carried Olympics glassware in the eighties and every time you filled your tank you got a new one. I pull two from the cupboard and check the fridge, but the only thing in there that’s drinkable is coffee cream and orange juice. Juice and mac and cheese don’t go well together, so I pour myself a glass of water instead and do the same for Kitty. “The only meals I’ve eaten here over the past decade have been around the holidays.”
“Being here with all the memories you left behind can’t be easy, especially with your mom in the hospital.” The microwave dings, and she removes the plate. She holds it out to me. “Normally I stick my finger in the middle to see if it’s hot all the way through, but I don’t think you want me fingering your food.”
I cough-choke on my water. I don’t think she means it the way my brain has interpreted it.
Kitty’s eyes go wide and she slaps a palm over her mouth. “Oh my gosh. That came out so wrong.”
I set the glass on the table and smack my chest a couple of times to get the water out of my windpipe. When the coughing subsides, I cross the kitchen, where Kitty is still standing with the plate in one hand and the other in front of her mouth. “I’m sure your hands are clean, but I can finger my own food.”
Her hand falls to her side and she gives me a look, but it’s clear she’s fighting a smile. “I meant that you didn’t want my fingers in your food.”
“I know, but I like that we’re both channeling our inner teenage boys.” I stick my finger in the center of the mac and cheese casserole. “It needs a couple more minutes.” I suck the cheese off the end of my finger and Kitty’s cheeks flush a deeper shade of pink. I like this banter better than the therapy session.