“Looks like I failed,” he says barely above a whisper. “There’s no hiding what you are.”
A girl.
He almost sounds remorseful at that fact.
He turns away, slowly wiping off his own face. “I’m hungry. Pancakes?”
But I barely hear him, standing there and watching him and the words flowing out of my mouth before I can stop them. “I may never be a man,” I tell him, “but I won’t always be a girl, either.”
I pause long enough to see him falter and his face fall, and I can’t help the small smile that peeks out as I turn and leave the bathroom.
Surely, I can take on more responsibilities.
When I’m a woman.
I pour some pancake batter onto the griddle, hearing it sizzle as I refill the ladle and pour another circle, one after the other. I watch the batter bubble against the heat, rubbing the smooth surface of my thumbnail.
For once, I’m actually happy to be cooking their breakfast. Jake and Noah are outside, taking care of their morning chores, but I still haven’t seen Kaleb, and rather than hide in my room and dread running into him, I can just stay busy.
Why the hell isn’t my suitcase packed?
After I left my uncle stunned stupid in the bathroom earlier, I dressed and made my bed, leaving my empty luggage abandoned on the floor, but even if the episode with Kaleb last night had never happened, I’m not sure I would’ve gone through with packing it then, either.
I lay the ladle in the bowl and pick up the spatula, flipping the pancakes and making the batter splatter.
Maybe that’s why I always came home on school breaks. Too desperate not to be alone.
I whip around to grab the plate and see Kaleb.
I stop. He leans against the refrigerator, staring at me, and my heart jumps as I clench my thighs. How long has he been standing there?
His green eyes watch me, the same curious expression he wore last night, and I can’t even hear the branches outside blowing against the house because my pulse pounds in my ears.
What is he staring at?
Locking my jaw, I grab the plate off the island and spin back around, scooping the pancakes onto the plate. He’s still dressed in jeans, but these ones are clean, and he looks showered, although his hair is disheveled like he just got up. I guess Jake doesn’t hold him to the same standard he holds Noah and me with his five-thirty wake-up calls?
His eyes burn my back, but after a moment, I hear the fridge open and close and then feel him approach my side. Is he going to apologize? What if I hadn’t been a step-cousin? What if I’d actually been blood when he decided to ignore my protests last night?
Slowly, I clear the griddle and dole out four more scoops of batter as he pours himself a glass of juice, but even though my eyes are on my task, all I can see is him next to me. He smells…
Like leather. Like musky bodywash. He must’ve just showered then. Last night it was…rain, trees, firewood, and sweat. He smelled like the woods. Heat pools between my legs at the memory.
I shake my head. For Christ’s sake.
“Leave the juice out,” I tell him.
But he doesn’t listen.
He turns around as if he didn’t hear me and takes the juice, sticking it back into the refrigerator.
“You like blueberry?” I ask. “Buttermilk?”
I don’t give a damn what he likes. I just want him to make me go upstairs and pack my suitcase.
“Chocolate chip?” I keep going, pushing us both. “Pumpkin? Whole grain?”
He picks up his glass of orange juice and strolls over to the table, gulping it as he goes on like I don’t exist.
I tighten my fist around the spatula as I flip the pancakes, breathing hard through my nose.
“How many would you like?” I drone on. “Three? Four?”
I glance over to see if he’s nodding or shaking his head or holding up fingers to tell me how many he wants, but he just sets his glass down on the table and pulls out a chair.
I pull out the plug of the griddle and add the fresh pancakes to the pile on the plate, grabbing the syrup and forks. The front door swings open and the floor creaks with footsteps as Jake and Noah come barreling in. How do they know when breakfast is ready?
I carry the pancakes to the table, setting the plate down in the middle as Noah grabs a glass of milk and Jake washes his hands. Both immediately over to the table.
Steam from blueberry pancakes wafts into the air as the guys sit down, and I twist around to pick up the plates off the island, my anger still rising.
I set a plate down in front of Jake, one down in front of Noah, and the last down in front of me, feeling Kaleb’s eyes on me, because I didn’t give him one.