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Jake shrugs. “That sucks, man, but there’s not really much you can do about it.”
“I know. I guess I just feel even more lousy about what happened with Sarah now. It sounds like he’s got enough going on, and I’ve made things worse.”
“You didn’t know. You can’t keep blaming yourself for things other people do.” He nudges me with a pointed look, and I pull a face because I know he’s right.
Nodding over at his computer, I ask, “What episode are you up to?”
Jake grabs his laptop from his desk, and we settle in to watch the last episode of season five. Sitting here, side by side with my brother puts me at ease for the first time since I kissed Hannah. It feels like a weight has been lifted and things will be okay.
26
I’m startled awake Saturday morning by a loud clattering sound coming from the kitchen. Checking the time on my phone, I freeze because it’s 8:30 in the morning and I know my parents are watching Brad play footy right now. So who the hell is in my house?
I’m about to dial for the cops when something else smashes and I hear a muttered curse. I straighten my back, open my bedroom door as quietly as I can, and tiptoe down the hall to the kitchen. Sticking my head around the corner, I clap my hand over my mouth to stifle a laugh at the sight of Oliver with his face covered in flour as he tries to clean up the shards of glass from cup of orange juice that he’s obviously knocked over in the process of doing whatever he’s doing.
Speaking of…
“What are you doing?” I ask, failing to hold in my laughter as he jumps up from the ground with a startled shout, hitting his head on an open cupboard and managing to slice his palm with a shard of glass at the same time.
I rush in to help, sticking his hand under the kitchen tap to clean the wound before wrapping a tea towel around it tightly to stop the bleeding.
“Jeez, Han. You scared the shit out of me.” Oliver winces, rubbing his head with his good hand. He lets out a little gasp when he sees me still dressed in my pyjamas–flannelette pants and a little pink crop top, which admittedly is not doing much to hide how chilly it is this morning.
I roll my eyes with a smirk, heading to the cupboard that holds the first aid supplies. “What do you expect when I wake up to find someone has broken into my house when I’m home alone?”
I make my way back over to him, pulling the tea towel off to inspect the damage. It’s a superficial wound. I clean it with some betadine and place a large Band-Aid over it.
“I didn’t break in,” he grumbles, his cheeks redden slightly. “Your parents let me in before they left for Brad’s game.”
I lean back on the kitchen counter and survey the mess that he has made. “And you’re here because…?”
Oliver clutches at the back of his neck. I didn’t think it was possible, but his face turns an even brighter shade of red. “I thought I’d make you pancakes for breakfast.”
I narrow my eyes. We both know that he is a disaster in the kitchen. He somehow even manages to stuff up making a simple salad. Hence the calamity we’re standing in right now. “Why?”
He shrugs, staring down at the orange juice spreading along the floorboards. “To make up for all the shit I’ve put you through. I told you I’d make it up to you.”
I pinch my lips together, still trying to hold in my laughter. He looks like a mess right now with his swollen nose covered in flour, his two black eyes unable to return my gaze and now his sliced-up hand being cradled in his good one.
Stepping around the broken glass on the floor, I peer over at the pathetic looking, slightly burnt pancakes that are cooking on the stove. I can’t help the smirk as I turn back toward him and say sweetly, “And serving me up burnt pancakes makes up for being a douche?”
“Shit!” He rushes over to grab the frying pan off the stove. Placing it on the wooden chopping board, he shakes his head. He finally looks up at me with a wry grin. “Points for trying?”
Unable to hold my laughter back anymore, I stoop down to mop up the spilled orange juice of the floor before grabbing the dustpan to scoop up the broken glass. “You should never be allowed in a kitchen unsupervised ever again.”
“I’m not that bad,” he cries out, swatting me with the tea towel. I raise my eyebrows, indicating at the disaster zone that is my kitchen. “Okay, fine,” he concedes with a grin. “Maybe I am that bad. Help me clean it up and I’ll take you out for breakfast?”
The smile slips from my lips. This feels too much like a date. “Uh, how about I help you clean up and we just have some cereal?”
“I’m happy to–”
I shake my head.
“Yeah, okay,” he agrees. “Help me clean up and cereal it is.”
After throwing out the pancakes, Oliver washes the dishes while I wipe down the benches. I grab two bowls from the cupboard, pour out some Coco Pops for myself, some WeetBix for Oliver, and join him at the dining room table.
“I don’t know how you eat that,” he says, with a mouthful of food as I swirl my cereal around in the bowl, watching the milk turn chocolate brown.
