Page 49 of Tell Me Something True

“Regular pancakes?”

“Are there any other kind?”

Ian blinked at her from behind his glasses. “There’s the kind you made that one time that were just bananas and eggs.”

“Yes. There was one time, one single, solitary time when I was persuaded by social media to broaden our culinary horizons and try a new recipe.”

One time over two years ago when Ian was still in kindergarten.

Get over it already.

“They weren’t good,” he said, sitting up. “They were really, really bad. And squishy. And they smelled funny.”

“They smelled like bananas. And taste is subjective.”

Although he was right about the squishy part. But once they were covered in syrup, the taste and texture improved immensely.

Even if they did taste like a banana omelet.

“Not that that matters,” she continued, “because I’m not making those pancakes. Just as I haven’t made those pancakes at any point in time since that morning.”

“You’re making regular pancakes?” he asked, eyeing her suspiciously. “With chocolate chips?”

She nodded. “And if you want to eat any of them, and they’re going to be so delicious you’re going to want to eat all of them, you need to at least put some shorts on.”

Another shrug as he shuffled over to his dresser, book still in his hand. “They won’t be as good as Uncle Toby’s.”

“First of all, ouch. Secondly, it’s his recipe. Plus, I make them with way more love than he does which means they taste even better than his. But if you don’t like them, I’ll eat all of them and you can munch on some ooey, gooey oatmeal.”

Looking horrified, he made a gagging sound. “Ew! No way! Oatmeal looks like brains!”

“So you’ve mentioned before,” she said as she headed out the door.

She stepped into the living room and grabbed her phone to see she had one new text and three missed FaceTime calls.

All from Eli.

Great. Now she had to respond to him. If she didn’t, he’d probably call Urban or Miles.

Or, knowing her run of crappy luck lately, both of them.

She FaceTimed him back.

He answered immediately, his furious, handsome face filling the screen. He was walking down a busy city street, probably near his downtown Oklahoma City apartment, the breeze ruffling his dark hair, earbuds in his ears, a pair of sunglasses hooked on the neck of his t-shirt.

“He’s too old for you.”

“Uh, good morning to you, too,” she said, pulling the flavored creamer Kat always kept on hand for her from the fridge.

His mouth flattened.

She was the bane of all five of her brothers’ existence.

Which was only fair seeing as how they were the bane of hers.

And there were way more of them.

“Good morning,” he bit off through gritted teeth. “Henderson is too old for you.”

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