Page 32 of Devoted

“I’ll grab the ketchup.”

A snort-sob escapes from her. She pushes a palm to her forehead as shakes rack her lean body.

I circle around but being closer doesn’t help me tell whether she’s laughing or crying.

“Penelope?”

She drops her head back. “There’s not enough ketchup for these.” Tears well in her eyes, but she laughs. “How can I be so awful at so much?”

“Cooking’s a skill. If you’ve never done it—”

“I’m twenty-five, Cannon. How can I never have done it? But I haven’t!” She rounds on me, her eyes wide, almost feral. “You ate two cookies yesterday. How did you do that?”

By enduring a gut ache for two hours. “You baked them for us.”

“I didn’t try one.”

“Consider yourself lucky.”

She snorts again and sinks into a chair. “I thought my mood would improve once my ankle healed. Surely, I can’t have that little in my life that a simple sprained ankle leaves me drifting with nothing to do. But I have no hobbies. I have no other interests. I have nothing without my studio.”

I can’t determine whether her tears are from losing the studio or from having no way to cope other than by dancing. An expert might say I haven’t learned to cope yet after all these years. I lean on the avoidance method.

She props an elbow on the table and puts her head in her hand. “The kids I teach do things, you know. They come to class talking about basketball or swimming. They talk about snaps and DMs, and one kid even writes music. Another kid, he’s only fourteen, but he’s written a screenplay. Can you believe it? This little girl knitted me a scarf last year for Christmas.”

“You can do all those things. You can learn them as an adult. Maybe watch some cooking shows.”

She drops her head but giggles. “Do they start at the basics?”

I pull out a chair next to her. “We all start at the basics—it doesn’t matter the age. Didn’t you notice that the only food I was feeding you was some form of sandwich or something that got dumped out of a package and put straight into the oven?”

“You can’t cook?”

“I’m self-taught, but I’m no chef. My mom was more concerned with how I could improve her image in the dancing world. Omelets didn’t play into that.”

The line between her brows smooths. “We have eggs,” she says hopefully.

“I’ll pull up a video.”

I ask and the internet answers. We watch two tutorials before we attempt it.

I crack the first egg too hard, and it lands on the floor. Penelope laughs, a light melodious sound. Something I don’t hear enough.

“I swear I’ve done this before.” I tap another egg but with less force.

She prepares to whack the egg against the bowl. “Oh, wait—that one lady said to tap them on the counter so there’ll be fewer shells.”

She timidly taps, increasing the force until the shell cracks. Then she slowly pries it open over the bowl. The contents plop into the bowl, and we both peer over the top.

“Looks clear,” I say.

Her triumphant grin shifts something inside me. The foundation for the walls I keep trying to erect between us cracks.

She doesn’t notice I’m fighting a battle inside myself. I want to take her against the counter. Strip her leggings from her and forget the omelet. I’ll feast on her.

I grab an egg and crush it against the counter. “Dammit.”

She giggles again, the light, carefree one that’s destroying me inside. But my lips twitch.

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