Page 17 of Only Mine
“Only when I can make faces out of them,” she says seriously.
“Well, obviously.” I rummage through drawers until I find chocolate chips. “What kind of awful person makes pancakes without faces?”
Ivy snort-laughs, a hilariously undignified sound from such a small person. I find myself laughing too, genuinely, for what feels like the first time in months.
By the time Saint returns, Ivy and I have created a small army of pancake faces with varying expressions. There’s Happy Pancake with a chocolate chip smile; Surprised Pancake with wide strawberry eyes and an O-shaped mouth; Sleepy Pancake with half-lidded banana slices; and the pièce de résistance: what Ivy has named “Pancake From The Bad Place.”
This unholy creation features strawberry jam oozing from multiple “wounds,” chocolate syrup tears of the damned, and a grotesque mouth formed from a slice of bacon curled into a snarl. The eyes are hollowed-out centers of kiwi slices that stare with an empty, soulless gaze.
“It’s watching us,” I whisper dramatically to Ivy, who giggles with unholy glee.
“If you eat it, you get its powers,” she stage-whispers back.
“Or it possesses your soul,” I suggest, and she nods enthusiastically like I’ve confirmed a long-held theory.
Movement redirects my attention as Saint stops in the doorway, phone still in hand, staring at the spectacle before him. The kitchen is a disaster zone of flour, eggshells, and every condiment from the fridge. Ivy’s dinosaur pajamas nowfeature several new abstract designs in pancake batter and jam.
“What the hell happened to my kitchen?”
His voice is tightly leashed.
“Breakfast summoned a demon,” I say, gesturing to Pancake From The Bad Place. “But we’ve contained the threat.”
Saint stares at the creation with an expression that suggests he’s questioning every decision that led to this moment. His eyes sweep over the chaos.
“We can clean it up,” I offer, suddenly aware that I’ve essentially destroyed a professional chef’s personal kitchen. While wearing a bathrobe and no pants.
He doesn’t respond, just walks to the coffee maker and pours himself a cup with such precise movements it feels like he’s counting each drop. The silence stretches, uncomfortable.
Ivy seems oblivious to the tension.
“Try this one, Papa,” she says, stabbing a fork into our demonic creation and holding it out. “It gives you powers.”
“Or steals your soul,” I add helpfully, then immediately regret it when Saint’s glare shifts to me.
“Not now, Ivy,” he says, his voice clipped. He sets his phone on the counter, screen up. It immediately buzzes again.
“The restaurant’s sous chef quit,” he says abruptly. “That was the call.”
“Is that bad?” I ask, immediately regretting the stupid question.
He gives me a look that could curdle milk. “No, it’s fantastic news. I love scrambling to find a replacement before a VIP dinner.”
“Oh,” I say, not sure what else to add.
This isn’t my problem. I should be packing, not standing here in a borrowed robe with flour in my hair.
“Papa,” Ivy says, fixing him with an unnervingly adult stare. “Ask her.”
“Ivy,” he warns.
“Ask. Her.” She crosses her arms, a tiny mirror of his stubborn stance.
Saint’s nostrils flare slightly as he inhales. He looks at me, then away, his discomfort palpable. “My sister-in-law seems to think you’re trustworthy.”
I wait, sensing there’s more.
“And I’m...” He pauses, the words clearly difficult. “I find myself in a difficult position.”
