He puts his hands on mine, cradling them to his chest. “I belong to you.” He leans forward and places his lips on my knuckles. I put my face in his hair. It always smells clean, even though he almost never showers.
“Guess I'll just have to work a little bit harder. I'll ask Tex for more hours.” I'd only been doing a few days a week randomly after school at her parent's bookstore. I was full time in the summer, but I'd burned through a lot of that money on my own stupid car.
“I could get a job.”
I snort. Picturing Peter flipping burgers at the Dairy Queen was kind of hilarous.
“No one would hire you.” I run my fingers through his hair.
“You are probably right.”
“I'm always right.”
“That feels very nice.” He pushes his head against my hand. I giggle, wrapping my fingers in his hair and giving his head a little yank.
“I don't know how your hair hasn't turned into dreadlocks. Mine would.” I try to get my hand through the mass of curls that have wrapped around themselves. I can't.
“I could untangle your hair.”
“Sure, go ahead.” He grabs a brush from my nightstand, as I turn in my chair. His fingers plunge into the mass of hair, pushing some aside so he can start with one section at a time. The first stroke snags and makes me wince.
“You have to start from the bottom,” I tell him. Much better. The only sound is the slide of the brush through my hair. I close my eyes and let it happen. Of course I have to ruin the nice moment with a question that had been bothering me since yesterday.
“How do you die?”
His hand stops halfway through a brushstroke. “We turn into ash.”
“As in, 'ashes to ashes and dust to dust'?” I stomp on the image of it happening to him as it tries to form in the back of my mind. I'm not letting that happen.
“Yes.”
“That doesn't sound very nice.” It sounds awful.
“It isn't,” he says as if he knows. I don't ask anything else as he brushes the rest of my hair.
“What happens to me if you...” I can't say it.
“The bind will stay intact. You are protected, whether I exist or not.” I don't know if I find this comforting or not. We lapse into silence again, the only sound the brush through my hair.
When he's done, I put it up in a ponytail, turning to the side to make sure it's centered. “I guess I'll see you in a little while. I really don't want to go downstairs, but I kinda have to.”
“It will be fine. You'll see.” I turn around to face him, my face breaking into a smile before I can stop it. I should really try harder not to get so close to him. It's like dancing next to an open flame.
“You just need to keep saying things like that to me. I might start to believe them.”
“Then I will keep telling you.” His eyes don't try to snag mine, so I'm free to stare into their depths for a moment. The blue one reminds me of the perfect color of a cloudless sky. The green is like clear beach glass from an old bottle, with tiny flecks of gold mixed in. They're much prettier than mine.
“See you later.,” I say, trying not to kiss him. I settle for creepily touching his shoulder.
“Until then, Ava-Claire.” God, I love how he says my name. It suddenly becomes the sexist name in existence when he says it.
It takes me hours to get down the stairs because I'm listening to gauge what I'm walking into.
Instead of my mother making pancakes or waffles and humming, Dad is frying eggs and bacon. Yuck. He knows how I feel about bacon, but he's cooking it anyway. At least it overwhelms the smell of his blood, which I think I'm getting used to. I don't say anything as I walk in the kitchen.
“Your mother is doing better,” he says, beating me to the punch. He winces as a spray of bacon grease flies through the air. That stuff is not only gross, it's dangerous. It should come with a warning label and a Hazmat suit.
“Good.” I hover in the doorway, wondering if I should escape to the living room. Or just go up and hibernate in my room. My phone buzzes again. Tex. Gah, why won't she leave me alone? I flip it open, just so I don't have to talk to Dad. She's pestering me about the supposed date she wants to go one with me and Peter and Viktor. Like that's going to happen.
Come on, I neeeeedddd to kno! At least she hadn't used all caps. I take a breath as I imagine smashing her head open on the hood of her car. I hate, hate, hate those violent images. Hate them. I react by sending her a rude text.
Lay off!
I feel bad the second after I send it and hurry to send a second message.
Sorry. home stuff. lot going on. forgive?
She responds right away.
maybe. do I get a date with Viktor?
Does she ever give up? I'm going to regret sending this response, but I can't take it anymore.
Maybe.
REALLY?!!!!
I said maybe.
OMFG!! have 2 go and pick out sexy underwear!
I don't bother texting her back. There's no point. Tex goes full-throttle. Go big or go home.
“Hello, ma fleur.” Mom's tired voice sings down the hall, seconds before her sleepy face peers around the corner.
“How are you?” I want to crush her in a hug, but don't want to actually crush her. Carefully, I fold myself into her fragile arms. I'm so afraid she's going to break if I so much as breathe on her. She's not even wearing a wig, just a scarf wrapped around her head and a robe.
“Claire, you need to get back to bed.”
“Oh Sam, stop worrying.” I'm taken aback. She almost never scolds him like that. Usually, to placate him, she goes along.
“Claire.” His voice is pleading instead of firm.
“Stop.” She says it in a flirty voice, putting her arms around him. She adds a smile and his worried face melts into an answering smile. Bravo. My mother and her feminine wiles.
While we're all distracted, the bacon starts to burn and the smoke alarm goes off. Lots of towel waving and screaming about grease fires ensues. When things calm down, Mom takes over the breakfast preparations. Thank god for small mercies.
She rescues the eggs, but the bacon is a lost cause. It makes my stomach turn to smell it, so I volunteer to take out the trash so I don't have to. When I come back in, she's sprayed some deodorizing spray that's vanilla lavender. It's delicious, but doesn't quite mask the burned bacon and blood smell. It seems nothing will work on the latter.
We all eat our eggs and toast at the dining room table. I can't remember the last time we all ate breakfast together. It's kinda quiet, but Mom makes a valiant effort to talk about stupid things. None of us mention the day before. Dad and I kind of took care of that last night. I'd rather not have a replay.