Page 48 of We Can't Be Friends

Hand painted artwork on the walls. The discarded black clothing on the floor is a stark contrast to the rest of the space.

Her living room isn’t any different.

Wandering around her place—looking at the photos on the bookless bookshelf, touching the delicate knitted blanket tossed over the edge of her couch—feels intimate. That I’m getting a glimpse of who Chloe is at her core. The rough edges, the tattoos, the sharp exterior is soft on the inside.

I force myself to stop self-touring, needing to make the pancakes before she returns.

Walking into the kitchen, the only semi-organized room, there’s nothing out except one thing. She wasn’t lying when she said she doesn’t cook.

On the counter, a vase of daisies.

The wild kind.

They’re fresh, recently purchased for her.

I take a whiff, loving the smell of daisies. They remind me of the countryside where my grandparent’s farm is.

They remind me of her.

Making pancakes is simple. Every summer growing up, when we’d go to visit my grandparents, my grandmother and I would make them every morning from scratch.

While using the instant kind feels like cheating, I don’t have a recipe memorized nor do I think I’ll find the ingredients here.

The kitchen is tiny, as is the rest of her place. While rummaging for plates, I accidentally elbow the bowl of batter, spilling the remaining bits on the floor.

I’m on all fours, cleaning up the batter when the door opens.

“Tucker,” Chloe says quickly and with anguish. “Stop, you are going to pull my arm out.”

The leash clutters to the floor and I hear his paws before I can see him. All seventy-five pounds of him come barreling into me. His tongue taking over for the rag in my hand, licking up the remaining bits. Thankfully, there are no chocolate chips on the ground.

“Would you look at that? A man on his knees, exactly as he should be.”

I stand up and turn to face an annoyed but amused Chloe.

“I thought I told you to go home and rest.”

“About that. . .”

“What? Your listening ears turned off?” She crosses her arms in front of her chest, blocking the tiny black letters across her white tee.

She’s hot when she’s annoyed.

“Liam and Emerson wanted the place to themselves.”

“Themselves,” she questions. “I guess that’s fine,” Chloe blows out her annoyance.

“I was going to leave, but then—”

She sniffs the air. Gray irises growing three sizes. She stands on her toes to peek over my shoulder.

“Did you make pancakes?”

“Banana and chocolate chip.”

“Dammit, Emme.” She brushes past me, picking one up from the stack on the scalloped lilac plate. Chloe is straddling Tucker, who is still going to town on the floor. She takes a bite of the pancake and moans. “You’re lucky I’m starving.”

Suddenly, so am I and not for pancakes.

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