Page 56 of Making Choices

The coffee table is on its side and the couch has been knocked into the wall.

My cousin struggles back to his feet. “How do ya think? I’m not a bloody bat, I can’t see in the fuckin’ dark.”

Waving my phone in his face, I tell him, “If you’d get a new phone, you could use your flashlight like everyone else in the world.”

“Don’t need the government trackin’ me.”

Rolling my eyes at his paranoia, I retort. “You could’ve turned on a light.”

“Was tryin’ not to wake you.”

“And look how well that worked out for you.” I flick on the light in the kitchen, grab the oven mitts, and pull his dinner out of the oven. He takes a seat at the breakfast bar and holds his hand out for a knife and fork after I slide his plate in front of him. “Hold your horses. I’m getting them.”

As he scarfs down the chicken cacciatore, pausing every now and then to blow on the hot food, I flick on the kettle. I slide onto the counter and swing my legs while I watch him. My stomach roils a couple of times at the smell of his dinner, but it doesn’t get to the point where I need to dash off to throw up.

The kettle whistles, then switches off. I make myself a cup of chamomile tea, adding a dollop of honey per Charlie’s instructions. Holding it to my nose, I grimace at the smell and shudder.

“Still feelin’ like shit?”

“Yep.”

“You look like you’re not sleepin’.”

I place my mug next to me and make hip-hop hands as I rap, “Now this is a story all about how… my life got flipped turned upside down.”

Toker drops his fork then stretches over the breakfast bar to pinch my lips together. “We made a deal. No more singin’.”

“I was rapping, dumbarse.”

“Looked like you were tryna raise the dead.”

“You’re a harsh critic.” After lifting my chamomile tea to my mouth, I screw my eyes shut and take a big sip. It burns my tongue a little, but otherwise, the flavour is palatable. Lifting my eyelids, I give Toker a nod. “That wasn’t as bad as I expected.”

“Well, it smells like dirty dishwater so I’m glad it doesn’t taste like it.”

Snorting, I roll my eyes at him. We lapse into silence. Toker fills his stomach and I sip on my tea. When we’re both finished, he helps me add his things to the dishwasher and turn it on. My cousin seems in no rush to get outside for his guard duty so I pull open the fridge and offer him a bottle of beer.

“Thanks.” He pops the lid off using the bottom of his lighter and drains it in one go. Handing me the bottle, he makes gimme hands. Apparently, I’m too slow to grab him a second bottle because he mocks me a moment later. “What? Is there a national shortage of yeast I don’t know about or does the service here just suck?”

I flip him off. “There’ll be a national shortage of you if you speak to me like that again.”

“Ooooo.” He holds his hands in the air. “Mean Cherub’s makin’ an appearance.”

“You want to see mean—” Clapping my hands over my mouth, I hit the fridge door shut with my hip then spin around to vomit in the sink.

“Jeez, little cuz.” Toker stands behind me and rubs the small of my back. The chamomile tea doesn’t smell any better coming back up than it did going down. “My joke wasn’t that bad.”

I can feel his worried gaze on me as I rinse my mouth and spray disinfectant in the sink. When I grab the cloth to wipe down the stainless steel, he takes hold of my wrist to stay my hand. Extracting the sponge from me, he gently nudges me out of the way and finishes cleaning out the sink. “Go and sit down. I’ll deal with this.”

“If you’re sure…” My question trails off when he shoos me away.

Once I’ve straightened the couch and pulled the coffee table back onto its legs, I flop onto the closest cushion and lean my head against the backrest. Toker joins me on the couch a few minutes later and swipes the remote from my clutches. “Guest’s choice.”

“Whatever.”

After he settles on an action movie, he pulls a cushion onto his lap. My head is forced down a moment later and Toker pins me in place with a hand to my shoulder. I put up a token resistance, then relax. It’s been lonely as hell hidden up here away from everyone I love. My relationship with my dad hasn’t improved since our argument during the first week—if anything it’s gotten worse. In an uncustomarily passive-aggressive move, he’s punished me for arguing with him by restricting my visits to see Fret. I’ve only been allowed out three times, and each occasion was time limited. If Toker didn’t visit every couple of nights, I would’ve seen no one but my younger brother for most of my two weeks in captivity.

“I texted Charlie and she said to have another cup of tea before bed.”

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