Page 39 of Fated

I wonder ...

“Aren’t you?” I ask, wondering about this morning and the rescue and the kiss.

His gaze moves to my lips and then just as quickly flickers back to my eyes. Then he forces a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Come on. Let’s get cleaned up and make banana pancakes. We have a busy day.”

He takes my hand and pulls me from the water. The sea flows off us in rivulets as we climb from the sandy shelf onto pink seashells and rounded sea stones. The shells poke my bare feet and the cool, frothy surf pools around my toes, trying to tempt me back into the water.

Aaron’s grip is firm, his hand slick and hot as his fingers twine tightly through mine. He tugs me up the beach and my feet sink into the soft, wet, powdery sand. The breeze has kicked up and my wet dress, sticking to my skin, flops in the wind. The wind prickles as the salt and water wicks away.

At the edge of the sand and the grass, Essie calls out, “What’s in your head, girl? Aaron dropped the cake to go after you, and now look! No chocolate box cake!”

Aaron’s grip tightens on mine, and I take a step closer to him as I turn to look where Essie’s pointing. In the spiky grass and the sand the chocolate cake is smashed and goopy. All three chickens parade through the mess, pecking and gobbling, white, blue, and pink frosting painting their beaks in icing lipstick.

It reminds me of the cake Mila tipped over last night, only a wilder version. I wonder if my subconscious pulled that scene into this moment. It’s like when I have a stressful day at work and one of my VPs shows up in my dream juggling flaming clocks or cracking open chocolate cauldrons.

“Sorry, I’ll get another.” I stare as the rooster makes a dash at one of the hens and they slide around the frosting.

“There isn’t any more box cake on the island. Junie said this is the last.” Essie gives me a disgusted look and then stares pointedly at my wet white dress.

That’s when I realize I’m wearing white, it’s wet, and now see-through. Everyone can see my lovely pink heart cotton underwear and bra. It’s like those dreams when you’re naked in front of people—oh wait, itisa dream where I’m practically naked in front of people.

Thankfully, the men aren’t staring—they’re all politely turned away, arranging the tables and chairs—and all the women except Essie have their attention on the cake remains.

Aaron steps closer, shielding me from the men’s view. “We’ll figure something out,” he says to Essie, then he squeezes my hand.

I look up at him and he stares down at me, his eyes clear of the hunger and need that was there when we were kissing.

“Mom, can we eat yet?” the girl calls from the porch.

I startle and pull my hand from Aaron’s grip.

The toddler lets out a babble and a shout that sounds a lot like, “Bana pan bana pan!”

I frown. This could be trouble. I’m a terrible cook—this is why Annemarie cooks for us, and even Daniel, and sometimes Max. Not me. My cooking repertoire consists of cheese toasties, beans on toast, and eggs on toast. Even porridge is beyond me—it always ends up tasting like half-dried glue with the consistency of pebbly cement.

But you know what? It doesn’t matter. It’s a dream.

I can swim. I can kiss. I can love. And I can cook.

15

Okay,I can’t cook.

Not even in dreams.

The pancakes are flat, gelatinous, wriggly frisbees that have the consistency of squid and the taste of wet socks. You’d think the bananas would’ve rescued the breakfast, but apparently I was supposed to cook them and not just peel them. So I mashed them up and put them in a pan, and I don’t know how it happened, but suddenly they were black and burned and bitter.

I chew a bit of the banana, and a crispy chunk of charcoaled fruit crunches between my teeth. It’s bitter and burnt, but sadly it tastes better than the pancake.

The acrid scent of burned banana curls through the air and the only sound at the little table is the slow scrape of forks across ceramic plates. Aaron hasn’t looked up from his plate. He’s hunched over it like a soldier wading through a battle he’s not sure he’ll win.

The teenager is stabbing at the pancake, cutting it into smaller and smaller bits, then scraping them around her plate like she’s creating abstract art.

Even the toddler is quiet. He’s currently staring at a clump of pancake he’s squeezing like Play-Doh between his fingers. He gums at it and then wrinkles his nose in disgust and drops the ball of goop to the wood floor.

The toddler is maybe eighteen months. He has wispy copper-penny hair, blue eyes, and a chubby baby belly, chubby cheeks, and even chubby fingers. He has the habit of smashing food in his fist and then watching it squirt out between his fingers. If it makes a squishy noise he chortles with glee.

When he first saw me he lifted his arms and said, “Mamamamama.”

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