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God, I need to savor each bite.
I might be great at baking and making coffees, but I am not a great cook at all.
Python leans back against the counter, a spatula still in his hand. “My mother,” he begins, eyes distant, almost like memories are flooding through his mind. “She believed cooking was an essential skill, especially for survival. Said it kept us connected to our roots, and our heritage.”
I don’t know how to ask this, so I tread carefully. “Has she passed?”
He gives me a curt nod, “Yes, she’s long gone,” His words are heavy, like they’re being yanked from a well full of sorrow. “But,her lessons have stuck with me throughout the years. They keep her memory alive within me, in a way.”
I nod, understanding the weight of carrying someone within you, letting their teachings guide you through the fog of uncertainty.
My father raised me after my mother decided I wasn’t worth sticking around for, and when he died my entire world shattered.
We eat in silence for a few minutes, the only sounds ringing out are the clinking of cutlery, and the hum of a refrigerator fighting off the heat.
Eventually I speak up, “Thank you for making breakfast. This was delicious.”
I get up off the barstool and head over to the sink, squirt some soap over a sponge and begin washing it.
“Don’t sweat it. I’m just glad you liked my cooking.”
I crack up, “I didn’t like it. I loved it. Feel free to cook for me anytime, honestly.”
Python chuckles as he comes up behind me, his deep rumbles echoing.
He places his plate in the sink and wraps his arms around me, pressing his lips against my neck in a way that makes me want to melt to the floor.
He groans against my neck, “Fuck, I want nothing more than to ravish you bit by bit, but you should probably make a bag up. I want you at the clubhouse sooner rather than later.”
A chill shoots down my spine, while I suddenly feel odd at the same time.
He takes a step back, and I suddenly feel emptiness at the loss of his body against mine.
I swallow hard and turn around, “I can finish the dishes, you know.”
He snickers, “I’m more than capable. Go make your bag so we can get going. Is the cafe closed today?”
It’s Sunday, so yes. “Yeah, what about tomorrow? What will happen then?”
“We can discuss more about that later, but we’ll figure it out.”
I give him a nod and go back into my bedroom, change out of my robe and into some fresh clothes.
Once I find my bag, I put as much as I can in it because I don’t know how long I’m going to be at the clubhouse.
It could be four days, or it could be two weeks.
Either way, I want to be prepared.
I zip my bag shut and a pang of nervousness hits me in my gut.
I don’t like feeling like this, like I’m not safe.
I hate Tony for what he’s done to me, for what he’s continuing to do right now.
Heading out into the living area, Python’s waiting for me by the door.
The keys to his bike are in his hand and he now has his cut on. “You ready?”
