Page 98 of Monstrous Serpent

Atlas takes a deep breath, then lets it out slowly. “My dad called me six times after he got the bill. Six. And it was my birthday, by the way. Yup. Got yelled at on my birthday. The man was so heated he didn't even say happy birthday until the next day.”

I straighten, staring at him.

Lying fuck.

His birthday is in March.

Mrs. Jenkins’s hands fly to her mouth. “Oh, my. I’m so sorry. Let us know what we owe you.”

I huff, shoving my best friend aside. “No need, ma’am. It’s fine.”

Mr. Jenkins looks at his older son. “Care to explain yourself?”

Jenkins just storms up the stairs, his father following. A moment later, a door slams, then a few soft knocks.

I swallow once, gaze still locked on the upper landing.

Coming here wasn’t a good idea.

I turn toward Mrs. Jenkins. “We should go. Thank you for inviting us, ma’am, but—”

“Nonsense. Come help me in the kitchen.” She turns to Atlas. “You and Davis can take Blue for a walk.”

“Let's go, baby Jenkins. I'll show you how to make Mr. Smooshy do tricks.”

Davis’s face scrunches. “I'm not a baby. And his name is Blue, not Mr. Smooshy.”

Atlas waves him off. “Agree to disagree.”

“You’re such a butthead!”

“Yeah, yeah. Where’s Mr. Smooshy’s leash?”

I exhale through my nose and follow Mrs. Jenkins to the kitchen.

“Plates are in that cabinet.” She nods toward the upper row near the window. “The silverware is in the drawer by the stove.”

I walk over and pull down six plates, set them on the counter, then grab the silverware. Everything matches. Same pattern on the handles, same weight in my hand.

She pulls a cast-iron skillet from the rack above the stove and sets it on the burner. “Hope you like Steak au Poivre.”

“Anything is fine, ma'am.”

I stand there, watching as she puts butter in the pan, waiting for the foam to settle before laying two thick-cut filets in next. The sizzle is the only sound in the kitchen. It’s nothing like the Trembleys’, where someone is always yelling, someone's fighting over the last of something, and Atlas won't shut up long enough to chew.

“Do you like to cook?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Finish setting the table, and you can help me with the rest.”

I nod and take the plates to the table, laying out the forks, knives, and napkins the way they belong. The filets hiss behind me, steady and even. When I come back, she has a shallow bowl waiting beside the stove.

She nods to the cutting board. “Crack the peppercorns, don’t grind them. They get bitter if they’re too fine.”

I pick up the knife and press the flat side down until the peppercorns split under the blade. Pepper dust hits my nose, so I wipe it with my forearm and keep going.

“Perfect.” She lifts the filets from the pan and sets them on a plate to rest, then adds the peppercorns to the butter and the browned bits left behind.