I duck my head. Swallow dryly. “Uh, hey. Hey, Wendy.” I give her a smile. “You…sleep okay?”
Wendy nods. To Fox, she just groans. “No! Like thetypetype.”
“Yeah, I dunno.” Fox sets the cereal box on the coffee table, dusts his fingers on his pants, and cocks his head at me. “Tink, what kind of skin doyouhave?”
God, does he have to be looking at my face? No, focus.Combination,I think.Oily T-zone, but prone to dry patches on the sides of my nose.
Outwardly, I just shrug and say, “Dunno.”
“See?” Fox says on a yawn. He flops back, hands behind his head, which only serves to show off the swell of his biceps andthe dark thatches of hair under his arms. “Guys don’t know this stuff.”
“Well, you shouldlearn,” Wendy says from behind her sheet mask. “Skincare is for everyone.”
There’s the creak of a door hinge as Fox and Kit’s bedroom opens and a bleary-eyed Kit steps out. Wearing a shirt, at least.
“Yo,” Fox says, nodding at his brother. “Do you know your skin type?”
“The fuck?” Kit mumbles. He shakes his head. “No. White, I guess.” He squints at the kitchenette and heads for the espresso maker, but not without a quick double-take at Wendy on the couch. “Uh, good morning.”
As he passes me, he gives me a wide-eyed look, which I return with a kind of shrug that hopefully meansI’m on it.
Because I am, or I will be. Obviously. Someone’s got to figure out a way to get her back…somewhere. Anywhere.
Not here.
“Morning,” Wendy says politely, looking from Kit to the cereal box on the coffee table and then quickly to the TV again.
“Oh, yeah, that’s right.” Fox leans forward and points at me. “Do we have any food?”
“You woke me up to ask if we have any food?” I grumble.
“Because you usually buy food,” Fox says, grabbing the box of Mini-Wheats again. “I, uh, owe you more cereal, by the way.” He jerks his head at Wendy. “She wanted something to eat.”
“And you couldn’t look?” Kit says, picking up his tiny cup of coffee.
“I was…shut up.” Fox chucks a Mini-Wheat at Kit, which misses and lands on the floor, prompting the dog to jump to its feet—to its paws?—and scramble over to eat it.
“Is that…” I shake my head, deciding that dogs can probably eat whatever’s in cereal without dying. “Never mind. Uh, let’s see.” Still half-awake, I poke around the kitchenette, opening thenearest cabinet door, the one that never stays open anyway. “Do you like…” I pull out the first box I see. “…Pop-Tarts?”
Wendy’s face eyes light up behind her sheet mask. But when she speaks, it’s extremely polite. “Um, yes. Please.”
“Cool.” I bring the box over to the couch. “All yours.”
Wendy delicately removes her face mask and takes the box from me. She frowns. “These aren’t Pop-Tarts.”
Behind me, Kit sucks his teeth and chuckles. “Store brand? Dude, you can’t promise Pop-Tarts and then give her Toaster Treats. That’s a subpar experience.”
Wendy tips her head. “What’s subpar mean?”
“Like…not as good,” Kit explains. “But don’t worry. I’m sure they still have your recommended daily maximum of artificial colors and flavors.”
“She’ll be fine,” Fox says through a mouthful of Mini-Wheats. “Right, Wendy?”
Wendy nods, as if Fox was being completely serious. She takes out the one remaining foil packet, rips it open, and slides out a purple-coated Pop-Tart—I mean Toaster Treat—and narrows her eyes at it like she’s trying to give it an X-ray. Then she takes a tentative, exploratory bite of the corner—mostly the bread part, some frosting and filling.
“Will that work?” I ask as she chews. Swallows. Considers.
“It’s honestly not as good,” she declares. “But it’s still okay.”
