“Night, baby.” He pressed a quick kiss to my temple and left the room, closing the door behind him.
“Thanks, Mike,” I whispered quietly, allowing a smile to appear for one second before it melted away in the darkness.
* * *
“It’s alive!” Mike waved his hands dramatically as I zombie-walked into the kitchen and sat on the stool.
“Barely.” I laid my head on my hands, watching Mike by the stove.
“Hungry?” He held up a spatula.
“Not for plastic kitchen implements, if that’s what you’re offering.”
“Oh, a comedian today, huh?” He turned back to the stove, grinning. “So, are you hungry or not?”
“A little.” I grabbed an apple and took a bite. “Where is everybody?”
“Sam’s at school, Vicki’s gone to the movies with her friend, and your dad’s at work.” Mike turned back and winked at me. “It’s just us.”
“Okay, so, is that why you think it’s acceptable to wear a pink apron?”
He laughed, untying it. “Thought that might cheer you up a little.”
“What makes you think I need cheering up?” I turned my wrist over in question—the apple still in hand.
“Ara, I know you better than you know yourself. You need cheer. So—” he grabbed the fry pan and tipped the contents onto two plates in front of me, “—I made your favourite. Pancakes!”
I glared at him sceptically. “Is there maple syrup?”
Mike grinned, placing his hand on a bottle of brown liquid right by my elbow, and slid it slowly over. “Would I forget the syrup?”
“It wouldn’t be the first time.” I snickered and snatched the bottle.
He walked around the counter and slid onto the stool next to me, dumping a fork by my plate. My attempt at moodiness slipped away completely, though, when the first bite of his light, fluffy pancakes touched my tongue. Like sugar-coated puffs of heaven, the golden exterior of the pan-fried breakfast melted with the syrup at the perfect ratio of sweet and savoury—sending trickles of warm delight down my spine.
I stopped eating and studied him—the chef, the wonder-cook, the man who knew no failure.
“Something wrong, baby?” Mike asked, mid-shovel.
Yeah, you’re making it really hard not to love you. “I uh—I just remembered I have rehearsals today.”
“Rehearsals?”
“Mm. For a benefit concert we’re doing to raise money for this kid who died.”
“Oh. Okay. What time?” he asked.
“Dunno.” I shrugged. “I don’t think I’ll go.”
Mike sat taller, eagerness replacing his grin. “Wanna go for a run with me instead?”
“Yeah. Actually, I’d love that.”
“Great. Maybe we can make a picnic out of it. What’d ya think?”
I nodded and filled my gob again. “Yeah. I’d like that.”
* * *
“So, do you wanna talk about it?” Mike dropped to the grass by our picnic blanket and gulped a few swigs of water.
“Talk…about…what?” I huffed, letting my hands catch me on the ground, then rolled onto my back to watch the midday sun overhead.
Mike screwed the cap on his water bottle, swiped the sweat from his brow and leaned forward with his elbows draped over his hairy knees. “The reason I came in to find you asleep on your windowsill last night.”
As if controlled by a body-stiffening remote, my limbs went long. I laid very still, suddenly no longer aware of my exhaustion. “No.”
“You know that won’t gel with me, baby.” A bottle of water appeared over my face; I sat up on my elbows and took hold of it. “You need to talk, and whatever it is, you kn—”
“It’s none of your business, Mike.” I sat all the way up, unscrewed the lid and rolled the bottle to my lips, letting the cool liquid melt the heat in my throat. “Just stay out of my room if you don’t like it.”
He let out a short sigh, not an agitated or a hurt one, just more…frustrated. “Here. Eat.”
I studied the sandwich for a long breath, then snatched it with just a little too much hostility. “That won’t work on me anymore, Mike!”
“Ara? Where are you going?” Mike jumped up and ran after me as I headed toward the swing set across the park.
“Wherever you’re not.”
“Why?”
I dumped the sandwich on the ground—with a pang of regret—and said, “Because I’m not going to let you talk me into opening up to you.”
“By giving you a sandwich?” He stopped, making a point of laughing at me.
“Yes.” I looked at the discarded lunch. “Whenever you want me to open up, you feed me. And it always works, but this is none of your business.”
“Okay. Fine.” He held his arms out to the sides, still laughing. “I won’t ask. We’ll just hang. ‘Kay?”
The sandwich stared up at me; I really wished I hadn’t thrown it away. I wondered if maybe I could dust it off and eat it still. I knew I hadn’t been eating enough the last few days because my arms and elbows looked so bony and pale that the scab David left from drinking my blood looked red and malicious.
“Baby?” Mike went to touch my arm; I dropped it to my side, not having realised I was picking at the scab.
“Push me on the swing?” I said playfully.
The mask of concern dropped from his lips, but stayed in his eyes even as they lit with a smile. “Sure, baby.”
And that was that. He didn’t even mention my weird sleeping habits again—or my mum, or David—only Vicki and my relationship with her. But I assured him things were getting better, and he said they must be since I willingly called her “Mom” the other day.
When the park emptied and a strong breeze swept half of our picnic away, we packed up and jumped in Dad’s car, then headed home.
“Are you okay?” Mike asked, looking at my knees; I looked too. My legs were so stiff and rigid that my knees turned completely white.
“Yeah. I just—I never really feel quite safe in cars, now. It’s like, before, I knew they could crash and that they were dangerous, but now I know what that feels like, I don’t feel so invincible.”
“Blind faith gone, huh?”
“Yeah. But you still have it.” I nodded to the road. “You don’t feel the fear of these deathly metal machines.”