Total pages in book: 90
Estimated words: 86826 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 434(@200wpm)___ 347(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86826 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 434(@200wpm)___ 347(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
Dylan sighs dramatically. “Harper.”
“Just don’t,” I say, my voice veering into the “mom” tone I try not to leverage too much because he mostly just wants me to be his older sister.
He huffs his frustration but gives me what I want. “Okay. I won’t.”
“There’ll be dinner in the fridge.” My eyes drift to the pan of charred chicken sitting on the stovetop like a warning. “Or… something resembling dinner.”
And that’s enough to get a laugh. “It’s fine. I’m not five.”
My voice softens to a tenderness that’s not forced but so very natural. The love for my brother knows no bounds, even when I want to strangle him. “I know you’re not five. Just be careful getting home.”
“I will. Love you.”
“Love you too.”
I hang up and stand there for a second, staring at the chicken. “Okay,” I mutter, grabbing a knife. “We’re not dead. We’re just… crispy. Crispy can work. Some people like crispy, right?”
I transfer the chicken to a cutting board and begin surgical excision. The knife scrapes against the charred edges as I slice off the blackened parts, revealing perfectly edible meat underneath. Not exactly Food Network, but edible.
“That’s right,” I say under my breath. “We adapt.”
Beau’s stationed himself directly at my feet, his entire body vibrating with hope. His tail thumps rhythmically against the cabinet.
“This isn’t for you,” I inform him.
His tongue lolls out in disagreement.
I stare at my masterpiece before proclaiming, “Blackened. It’s called blackened.”
I scoop the salvaged pieces into a clean bowl and turn to the stove. The rice, miraculously, hasn’t joined the rebellion. I lift the lid and a soft cloud of steam rises, fragrant and cooked to perfection.
“See?” I tell Beau. “We’re not completely incompetent.”
I fluff it with a fork, then begin assembling plates. One for me. One for Dylan.
I portion out the rice first, then layer the sliced chicken over the top, drizzling a little sauce across both plates to give everything a unified look—like this was the plan all along.
Then I pause.
I study the two plates.
Dylan’s portion looks… fine.
But he’s seventeen. He’s six feet tall and still growing. He eats like someone preparing for hibernation.
I glance down at the plates, hating that I didn’t buy another few breasts of chicken for him, but it was that or a pack of bacon for breakfast. He has the lion’s share, but it’s not enough and I don’t need that much.
Without overthinking it, I slide a decent scoop of rice from my plate onto his. A few extra pieces of chicken follow.
“There,” I murmur. “That’s better.”
I cover his meal carefully with aluminum foil, pressing the edges down tight, then open the fridge and place it on the middle shelf where he’ll see it immediately when he gets home.
“Dinner,” I say quietly, closing the door. “Handled.”
I carry my plate to the small kitchen table that only seats two and takes up so much room, I have to push it out of the way to open the cabinets or sit down. The apartment feels somewhat subdued again, finally. No alarms or doorbells or ringing phones.
Just me and Beau, who positions himself beside my chair instantly, sitting tall and attentive, panting softly, eyes locked on my fork.
“You’re shameless,” I tell him.
His tail thumps once.
I take a bite. It’s… fine. Not terrible. The char is mostly gone. The rice is warm and comforting.
Beau’s gaze intensifies and I sigh. “I can’t believe I’m negotiating with a dog.”
I spear a small piece of chicken and hold it up. “This is it. A small one.”
He takes it gently from my fingers, as if he’s doing me a favor.
“That’s all,” I warn.
His eyes say otherwise.
I eat another bite, then give him a little rice. Then another small piece of chicken. His gratitude is immediate and overwhelming—tail wagging, body leaning against my leg like I’ve just rescued him from famine.
I reach down and run my hand over his head, fingers sinking into the soft fur between his ears. “You and me,” I murmur, scratching along his neck. “We’re a disaster.”
He nudges my hand, insistent. I look around the small kitchen—the slightly crooked cabinet door I keep meaning to fix, the counter still dusted with flour from earlier, the faint smoky smell lingering in the air.
It’s not glamorous, but it’s ours.
I press my forehead lightly against the top of Beau’s head. “We’re going to be okay, Beau.”
By the time I finish eating, the kitchen has cooled, the earlier chaos reduced to a faint smoky scent that lingers stubbornly in the air. I rinse my plate and begin the familiar task of washing dishes—warm water running steadily, soap foaming against cheap plastic plates, Beau lying stretched across the floor as if he’s just survived a natural disaster.
There’s a grounding feeling about cleaning up after a mess you’ve created yourself. It restores order. It suggests control, which I often seem to lack.