Total pages in book: 27
Estimated words: 25416 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 127(@200wpm)___ 102(@250wpm)___ 85(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 25416 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 127(@200wpm)___ 102(@250wpm)___ 85(@300wpm)
“Well, that settles it,” she says, propping her fist on one deliciously curved hip. “What you need is a hot, homecooked meal. And I know just where you can get it.”
“Where’s that?”
“My kitchen.”
God, yes...
“Oh, no, I couldn’t—”
“I won’t take no for an answer.” She lays her scissors down on her workstation and fetches her hairdryer. “If my dad just got out of prison and I couldn’t be there to bring him home, I’d want someone else to do the kind thing.”
“I wouldn’t want to impose.”
“Please,” she says, and the gentle pleading in her eyes makes my heart clench. “I can’t cook for my dad, so this is the closest thing I’ve got.”
My heart drops like a stone into the wishing well of my stomach, and I exhale a sigh.
Coward, bastard.
“How can I say no to that?”
two
TATUM
My mouth waters at the rich scent of Aunt Nina’s classic chicken and dumplings. I rub cold bits of butter into brown sugar and cinnamon for the peach cobbler, while Nina fixes us another round of her made-up cocktails, crafted out of whatever liquor she has lying around. When I was a kid, my aunt made me cocktails with sparkling water and grenadine. I’m not quite twenty-one yet, but so long as I only partake at home, she’s okay with me sampling the hard stuff.
“Here, sweet pea,” Nina says, handing over a coffee mug full of—I sniff—rum? “I call this one Nina’s Crabapple Delight.”
I chuckle and sip. The sour apple bite hits first, then finishes with the smooth taste of coconut rum. Not bad. Not great, but not bad.
“Thanks.” Setting down my drink, I return my full attention to the cobbler. For some reason, it feels extremely important that I get this dessert just right.
Nina sighs. I glance up to find her eyeing me with a shrewd expression, and not for the first time this evening.
“What?” I ask. “Did I get butter on my face again?”
Aunt Nina is a vision in a floral kimono, her graying curls piled elegantly atop her head, and her bangled wrists jingling like Christmas bells with every gesture. She raised me when my mom skipped town and my dad went to prison for armed robbery.
“Must you allow Marcellus to be your sous chef?”
Oh, right. My crested gecko, Marcellus, is seated atop my shoulder, overseeing the proceedings. Marcellus is the cutest lizard this side of the Mississippi, sand-colored with black spots, and delicate crests that give him the appearance of luscious eyelashes. He’s unable to blink, so he licks his eyeballs, and I find this adorable.
“He likes to be with us,” I say.
“He likes your body heat,” Nina counters, swirling the Crabapple Delight in her own mug.
“Well, I like his company. He’s my baby.” And he is. I’d had him for eight years now, because Aunt Nina didn’t know that crested geckos could live for up to 20 years in captivity and thought he’d make a nice, and temporary, pet. He was a comfort in the months after my dad was first put away, and he remains a comfort now.
“Fine," she concedes, "No more about Marcellus, who is definitely contaminating our entire meal. But remind me—”
“Aunt Nina...”
“Just remind me again, please, about the stranger joining us for dinner.” She says this like her work hasn’t brought countless strangers through our home over the years. A self-employed seamstress by trade, Nina’s big into New Age mysticism and spirituality. Not a week goes by when there isn’t a short parade marching through our apartment seeking tarot readings and astrology charts.
I sigh a long-suffering sigh and set aside the crumble topping for the cobbler.
“I met him at the salon.” I’ve told her this story six times now, and for some reason, Nina keeps asking me to tell it again, as though I’ve purposely left out a piece of vital information. “I thought, since he's new in town—”
“Uh-huh.”
“Just got out of prison—”
“Right.”
“And he's a carpenter. Or he was. Before everything.”
“Mmhmm, and you thought we'd offer him a hot meal and a job?”
“Why not?” I ask. Aunt Nina owns the duplex that she and I call home. Usually, she rents out the other unit, but it’s been recently vacated and in dire need of a face lift.
“I can think of a few reasons,” Nina says, over the rim of her mug. “But I’m no tyrant. I'll make you a deal.”
“No.” I know where this is going, so I turn her attention back to the dessert and encourage her to finish slicing the peaches. I simply will not allow her to base her opinion of Lucas on a tarot spread.
“Just let me give him a quick reading.”
“No.”
“And we can see what kind of man he is before we give him the keys to our livelihood.”
“The cards aren't going to tell you what kind of man he is, Nina,” I say, readying the cobbler to go into the oven.