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I wasn’t technically in the school building when a guy from another prep school in the city pushed me into a dark alcove at one of Zeus’s fundraisers and kissed me despite mystrongprotest. But I was school-aged when I watched Hercules beat him bloody and go to jail for it.
Thatguy—that rich asshole—had a sister who went to school with me. A sister I had classes with.
“That time at the fundraiser. And there was a time with that guy’s sister.”
“Hissister?What time?”
“She went to school with me.” Ithadto be unrelated. It was a freak coincidence.Freak.I didn’t mean to fall asleep in class. “One day, she lost it at me in class. Screaming about how I was a witch. That was it, though. I can’t imagine they’d have anything to do with this.”
Hercules frowns. “Probably not. It was years ago.”
“Right. Here.”
I slide the plate over to him, and he blinks like he’s never seen a plate before. “What’s this?”
“It’s scrambled egg sandwiches.”
“You make eggs in…sandwiches?”
“That’s how my dad taught me to do it. That’s how he makes them for Zeus.” Hercules flinches back from the plate but catches himself immediately. “Oh, for God’s sake, they’re eggs. Eat them. They’re good.”
“I’m nothing like Zeus.”
“Whatever. Regardless of how my uncle likes to eat eggs, this is the best way to have them. And Iknowyou traveled all night. I know you’re hungry, so just, like, shut up and eat them.”
I swipe a napkin from the holder and flutter it in front of his face until he takes it. Then I gather a glass with some ice water, and another glass with orange juice, and put them by the plate, ignoring his crossed arms.
“Take a bite. If you really hate it, I’ll make you something else.”
He glares at me.
I glare back.
Then Hercules picks up one of the sandwiches in his big, strong hands and takes a bite.
I can tell by his eyes that it’sgreat, actually.
“See? I knew you’d like it.”
“How?” he says around another bite of scrambled egg sandwich. Once he’s started eating, he can’t stop. He used to eat like that at home, too.
“I already told you. My dad taught me to make them this way.”
“Your dad doesn’t cook.”
“Not that much anymore, but I know Zeus told you they didn’t grow up with money. My dad would tell you the same thing. He also toldmethat the only way to have good food with no money is to learn to make it yourself, so he did. Hence the delicious eggs in your mouth right now.”
I expect him to scoff at this, but he keeps eating.
“Okay. Great talk. Anyway, bye.”
Hercules’s eyes follow me around the kitchen island. “…what?”
“I have to work.”
“But you—” He stops himself. Shuts his mouth. “I’ll come with you.”
“Stay where you want, but don’t come into my art studio. It’s private.” I’m not ready to see his face when he sees my work. Nor am I ready to explain why I paint horrors I despise on my good days and abstracts to show my family on my bad ones.
