Author: Teresa Mummert

“Brock.” I slammed my drawer and turned to face him, my back against the dresser.

“Right. Brock.” He took a step closer, and I put my hand on his chest, his skin hot under my touch.

“How is it possible that you’re even drunker now?”

Abel pulled a silver flask from his pocket and shook it. “You also had a fine sampling of boxed wines in your fridge. Very classy.” His eyebrow rose.

“Only the best for guests who won’t leave.”

He looked down at his chest, where my hand was still against him, then back to me. I pulled my hand away and tucked my hair behind my ear. “You get even more obnoxious when you drink.”

“Thank you.”

“Wasn’t a compliment.” We looked at each other for a long minute. “Fine. I’ll make you breakfast. Maybe it’ll help you sober up.”

He grinned in victory as I walked around him and toward the kitchen. I kept the light off and turned on the small one over the stove.

Abel took a seat at the table and stretched out his legs on the chair next to him. “Don’t you want to know how I like my eggs?”

“No.” I pulled open the fridge and grabbed the half‐used carton of eggs and the milk. I placed them on the counter and grabbed some cheese and turkey lunch meat. If I was going to make breakfast, I was going to make it how I liked. I might add a little spit to his.

I grabbed a pan and set it on the stove then turned on the burner and cracked the eggs into a bowl.

“Don’t you miss him?” Abel asked, and I sighed as I poured a little milk in with the eggs.

“Miss who, Abel?” I knew exactly who he was talking about, but I wanted to delay the inevitable heartache for an extra moment or two.

“I miss my family,” he said.

His confession surprised me, and I turned around to look at him. “Why don’t you go to California to see them?”

He laughed sadly. “My mom used to cook everything from scratch. It was crazy. Most people I knew had maids and cooks but not us. Mom wanted to make sure we ate healthy and weren’t eating some bullshit fast food.”

“Must have been nice.” I turned back around and mixed the eggs with a fork.

“It was.” I heard the smile in his voice. “Nothing like home cooking, right?”

“I wouldn’t really know. I cooked for myself mostly, and it was never anything fancy. I lived off hot dogs and mac and cheese on the good days.” I used the back of my hand to catch a wayward tear on my cheek as I grabbed the butter from the fridge.

“Yeah. After thirteen that was pretty much how it went for me too.”

“Why did they send you here?” I glanced over my shoulder, and Abel was still smiling from the nostalgia.

“I’m not nearly drunk enough to go into that right now. Maybe some other time.”

I nodded and went back to cooking our omelet. Abel’s mood swings were giving me whiplash. One minute he was so frustrating that I wanted to scream, and the next he was coaxing tiny details out of me that I hadn’t even told Marie. I felt like we had a secret in common, and that was enough to help me readjust the load on my shoulders and stand just a little taller.

“I hope you like omelets.”

“I thought I didn’t have a choice.”

“You don’t, but one way or another, you’ll eat it. Makes it easier if you enjoy them.”

“You’re cold‐blooded, Kettle. I love omelets.”

I smiled to myself as I slid his omelet onto a plate and cut it in half. I nudged his legs, and he pulled his feet off my chair so I could sit down. I placed the plate between us and held out two forks. He took one as his dimples settled deeply into his sun‐kissed cheeks.

“Thank you.”

I nodded and took a bite as he did the same. The sounds that came from his throat were pure sin as he devoured his half. He began to steal bites from my side, and I threatened to stab him with my fork, but I let him anyway because I wasn’t nearly as hungry as he was, and it was nice to have someone appreciate my food.

He didn’t stop until the plate was clean. Then he relaxed back in the seat with his hand over his stomach. “That was amazing.”

I grabbed our plate and forks to wash them, and Abel went into the living room. I heard the low hum of the television, and I guessed he had given up on sleeping at all. I turned off the light over the stove and made my way toward my bedroom.

“Lie,” Abel whispered, and I turned to see him sitting on the couch, remote in hand and the soft light from the TV illuminating his face. He patted the cushion next to him, and I reluctantly went to join him. I knew it would be hell trying to get back to sleep, and I didn’t want any more memories of my childhood flooding my dreams.

I plopped down with a cushion between us as he flipped through the channels. He would pause and glance at me for my reaction. If I didn’t give one, he’d continue on.

“Oh! That’s Wild Things. I haven’t seen that in forever. Keep it on this.” I pulled my legs up under me to get more comfortable.

We watched in silence, and it wasn’t until about twenty minutes later that I realized how stupid my choice was. I kept my eyes focused on the screen as the infamous threesome scene played out. I felt Abel glance my way, and he readjusted the way he was sitting. It was embarrassingly awkward, but I relished in the fact that it was making him as uncomfortable as I was.

“So…” he whispered quietly. “You’re kind of a perv.”

I glared at him, and he laughed, but his smile faded, and what was on the television was momentarily forgotten. The sounds of moans and kisses filled the background, and my heart thudded loudly in my ears. I watched the lights bounce off Abel’s face, the hard angle of his jaw more prominent and his blue‐green eyes glowing from the dim lighting. My mouth became dry, and I ran my tongue over my lips as he swallowed, his breathing noticeably heavier.

“Kill me noooow,” Trish wined, and our heads snapped in the direction of the hallway.

“I’ll get you some aspirin.” I jumped up from the couch, and I heard the channel switch to a talk show.

Chapter Nine

Wild Things

I cooked Trish an egg‐white omelet as she snuggled on the couch with Abel. It wasn’t an entirely selfless act because it afforded me a few moments of solitude while Abel was forced to listen to her incessant whining. She batted her eyes and stuck out her overly glossed lip, and he was putty in her hands, even after she’d stolen his pills. Men are idiots, and Abel was their king.

I cooked and hummed a song that had been stuck in my head for days, and after two verses, I realized it was the P!nk song Abel had sung in his car. Occasionally my personal concert was interrupted by laughter, and I angrily flipped Trish’s omelet, causing it to split apart in the pan. Beggars can’t be choosers.

I took Trish her food, and she didn’t even thank me as I handed her the plate and took a seat on the mismatched blue recliner across the room. I turned my attention to the television, which was now back on Wild Things. I glanced at Abel, and he was looking at me, and even though the scene on now was innocent, I felt the tightening in my belly that I’d had as we sat next to each other a few minutes ago. My eyes dared a glance at Trish, who now occupied my spot and was oblivious to my turmoil.

“What kind of cheese is this?” she asked.

“The kind you eat.” I rolled my eyes as she continued to stare at me, and if she hadn’t blinked, I’d swear she was one of those rubber sex dolls. “It’s breast cheese.”

“What?”

I kept a straight face as I turned toward her. “Oh, yeah. You’ve heard of headcheese, right?” I made a face like she was stupid if she hadn’t heard of it, and she reluctantly nodded. “Well, this is breast cheese. It is all the rage in London. It’s made from the breast milk of millionaire women.”

“Seriously?” She dropped her fork as disgust washed over her expression.

Abel laughed but cleared his throat as Trish looked at him angrily. He nodded and pointed back to me. “I think I’ve heard about that. It’s like…a delicacy, right?”

“Yes. That’s it. It’s a delicacy.” I smiled brightly at Trish, who slowly picked up her fork.

“Yeah…yeah. I’m sure I’ve heard of it. Duh. I’m just…tired.” She hesitantly took another bite, and I struggled to hold back a giggle.

Trish made a face as she chewed, and I looked back at the movie. “It’s provolone.” I sighed as I curled up on the chair and let my eyes go unfocused. I heard her mutter, “Bitch” under her breath, but I didn’t care. I struggled to keep myself awake, knowing it would be better to go to bed early tonight, but my body disagreed. I faintly heard them in the background.

“We never got to finish our date last night,” Trish said.

“Lie is right there.” His voice had an edge of annoyance, but she didn’t notice as she continued.

“She won’t care. She’s passed out.” There was a giggle, and it sounded like they were readjusting themselves on the couch.

“Haven’t you corrupted her enough?” Abel asked her.

“Come on. I know she’s a wet blanket, but it’s not like she’s a virgin or something. She has a boyfriend.”

I tried to hear the song that had been stuck in my head, but I couldn’t get it to drown out the sound of their voices.

“Has anyone actually seen this mystery boyfriend?” Abel’s voice was soft, but it cut through me like a hot knife.

Fucking jerk. I resisted the urge to jump up and run to my room. It would just be more humiliating. I felt the sting of warm tears, and I turned my head ever so slightly into the back of the chair. At least I was facing away from them; it was my only reprieve from this degradation.

“He’s probably not even real.” Trish giggled, and I hoped she choked on her omelet. There was more rustling around.

“She’s gonna wake up,” Abel said.

“Fine. Come to my room.” There was a pause then the sound of footsteps down the hall and the quiet click of Trish’s bedroom door closing, or maybe that was my heart cracking. I couldn’t be sure.

As soon as the coast was clear, I tiptoed to my room and closed the door. I made a beeline for the closet and dug out my box of secret memories. It held all the happy moments of my life, and it was no bigger than a shoebox.

I slid off the lid and made my way to my bed. I crossed my legs as I sat in the center and pulled each item out as I recalled the exact moment in time it had come from.

First was the picture of Brock from the shelter that he had stolen from his file. I stared at his black‐and‐white image as I recalled helping him choose which shirt to wear that day, only for it to be ruined by Tommy Larsen’s blood when he got hit in the nose with a basketball during our exercise time.

I pulled out another item. It was a small scrap of paper that simply read, “Bird.” I held it against my chest as a smile pulled at my lips and tears stung my eyes.

I took everything out and surrounded myself with Brock’s love. I put in my earbuds and played sad songs to drift off to sleep so I wouldn’t have to hear what was going on in the next room.

“I want to kiss you, Bird,” Brock whispered in the darkness of my room as he held me in his arms.

“No.” I giggled and pulled back from him, but he held me tightly against his chest as he glanced at the closed door, which we stood only a few feet away from.

“Why not?”

“We’ll get in trouble if someone finds us in here in the dark.” I pushed lightly against his chest, and he reluctantly released me, taking a few steps back to turn on the light and pull the door open. He’d still get in trouble for being with me, but it wouldn’t look nearly as bad. I took a few steps back and sat on the edge of my bed. I gestured to my roommate’s bed with my chin.