Mom preens. She’s a feeder. There’s rarely a day when she doesn’t make something delicious from scratch. The kitchen is her domain, and she’s a culinary artist. I guess I got my creative gene from her. Dad, on the other hand, burns toast.
When we’re all done with our food, Abby makes coffee for her and Mom.
“You want help cleaning up the kitchen?” Savannah offers. I can’t tell if she’s really offering, or if she’s just being polite.
“I’ll help, too.” Anything to spend a few more minutes in her company.
She looks like she bit into a lemon but doesn’t fight me. It’s a little victory, but little still counts.
At the sink, Savanna’s shoulders curl forward, and I wonder how she’s still standing. I want to hug her, to carry some of that emotional weight for her, but I’m half-scared that if I step into her space right now she’ll butcher me with the carving knife she’s moving from the cutting board.
She empties the dishwasher while I fill the sink with warm, soapy water. When she stands up straight, our elbows brush, and she apologizes. I’m dying to talk to her, but I can sense she needs some space and quiet.
As the sink fills, I cover some of the leftovers with plastic wrap, and I get a whiff of her citrus shampoo as she passes. They won’t last long, they never do. If we stay for any length of time I bet Dad and Kev will go for round two. Mom brought a wheel of brie, a Granny Smith apple, and some fig preserve just in case there’s an opportunity to make turkey sandwiches. They’re thebest.
We both reach for the same dish in the sink and our hands tangle together. Jerking back our hands like we’ve been electrocuted, we both smile, still quiet.
Dad and Kev have already moved on to the second pack of Spotted Cow.
Savannah stacks the dishwasher in silence, and I get to work on scrubbing the pots. She casts occasional furtive glances at me, like she’s expecting me to fill the quiet with idle chatter. And while it’s tempting—so fucking tempting—the quiet seems to be working for her. So I stay silent, trying my best to give her what she needs.
Her shoulders have softened, her jaw isn’t flexing, and shefeelscalmer to me. When she’s done loading the plates and filling the dishwasher with detergent, she starts the wash cycle and picks up a towel.
She’s standing so close to me that our elbows are almost touching. I should be a gentleman and give her more space but every time our skin connects, a little flutter of electricity skates up my arm, and honestly, I don’t want it to stop.
We still haven’t said a single word. The air around us is heavy with unspoken words. It’s getting to the point that I might need to clamp down on my tongue to keep from saying something. It’s almost turned into a silent challenge, and I’m not going to lose by speaking first.
I’m rinsing out the last pot in the sink when a shriek bursts from her, followed by a string of curse words. When I turn to her, she’s clutching her hand and droplets of blood ooze from between her fingers.
“Shit. First aid kit?”
“Under there.” She jerks her chin to the cabinet under the sink.
“I’ve got you. How bad is it?” I’m already crouched low to the floor, holding the cabinet door open and groping inside for the first aid bag.
“I think a Band-Aid would do.” She hisses as she examines the cut on the side of her finger. “It’s not too deep, it’s just bleeding a lot.”
Rising to my feet, I already have the kit open and am digging for something to cover her wound, but she’s moving away from me.
“Where are you—?”
She plonks down on a dining room chair and leans forward, putting her head toward her knees. “Not great with blood.” She looks up, giving me an embarrassed smile. The color has drained from her face like she’s lost half of the blood in her body.
She holds her hand out for me to give her the Band-Aid, but instead I hold mine out. “I’ve got it.”
She looks at me, then her finger, then back to me before she reaches her injured hand toward me and puts her head back down near her thighs with a groan.
I clean up the blood, put the Band-Aid on—making sure she was right about the severity of the cut—before sliding my knuckle under her chin and tipping her head back so she can see me.
“All good.”
She glances at her hand like she doesn’t believe me, then breathes out a sigh. “Thank you.”
Just like that, we’re back to within kissing distance, staring at each other, holding each other in our orbits. I search her eyes, waiting for some kind of demand to stop what I’m doing and get the fuck out of her space, but none comes.
She smells like chocolate. I risk sliding my palm along her jaw to cup her face, and she sucks in a sharp breath which she holds onto. Our noses touch so I tilt my head, ready for her lips to cushion mine.
“Justin!” Sophia’s voice permeates the quiet. There’s a shake of a board game inside a box, the pieces rattling against the cardboard.
