Page 118 of Sweet Keeper

I turn to face Bree.

“Why does everyone call me Ken?” I wonder.

She hesitates.

“Because you kinda look like one.”

I scowl. “I do not.”

Although thinking about it, I’m not that far from the freaking doll. That’s not a comparison that I want, but fuck. I can’t change the way I look. No matter how much my mom tries to convince me to let her dye my hair. I guess I have to get used to the nickname.

“Sorry, babe. At least you’re a good Ken.” Her offer doesn’t make me feel any better. “Are you ready to meet the Pierces?”

Inhaling deeply, I prepare myself for what’s coming.

“Of course.”

We zigzag our way through the people in the house, occasionally stopping to introduce me to some cousins, aunts, and family friends. There’s someone that she doesn’t even stop to look; a ginger guy that’s wearing a suit for a family reunion. He’s watching Luanna with an unhappy scowl. I assume that’s the uncle that she hates, her mother’s brother and Lu’s father. I don’t get good vibes from him. He exhibits dark and douchey energy.

Bree leads me to the kitchen that, even if it’s not far from the entrance, it feels like it’s miles away. There’s a woman around my mother’s age handling the whole kitchen like an expert. There are pots in the stove, platters on the counter, and the oven is on. But she’s not even sweating.

Because she does it all the time.I have no doubts that she’s Bree’s mom. The chef of the family.

Her hair is not as ginger as the rest of her family. It’s almost crossing the shade of brown. Maybe around mahogany and red oak. However, I can see the resemblance between Bree and her. Especially with the galaxy of freckles that cover their faces. She’s taller than her daughter, but just by an inch or two. It’s hard to say because she’s wearing high heels that could be a lethal weapon if someone wanted to use them like that.

I may be a little intimidated by her. A woman who can handle knives as if they belonged to her bodyandcooks in heels is more intimidating than half of the male population.

“Mom,” Bree calls her.

The woman’s face lightens up with a warm and radiant smile.

“Honey, I didn’t know that you were already here,” she says. “I’d hug you, but I’m sweaty.”

Her comment catches me off guard because I don’t see a single drop of sweat coming from her.

“Ignore her. She never sweats, but swears that she does,” Bree explains and tugs my arm, making my presence known. “Mom, this is Stanley.”

Her mother’s eyes salute me with a hint of maliciousness, her sight alternating between her daughter and me.

“So this is thefriendthat your father was telling me about,” she comments, and her voice hides a joke that I don’t seem to get. “I’m Sabrina, yourfriend’smother.”

Realization punches me.

“Wait, Sabrina… Bree… Your name is your mother’s nickname?” I question, and they smile as if I just deciphered the family’s enigma.

“He’s fast,” Sabrina observes. “So, Stanley, where does your name come from?”

My mom thinks that she conceived me during a hockey game.

“My parents like hockey,” I reply instead. It’s not a total lie, but it’s less embarrassing than the fact that my mother is entirely transparent with me. A detail that has caused me a few traumas in the past.

I know facts about her that I shouldn’t.

“Oh, mom, by the way, what dad didn’t tell you is that Stan isn’t my friend,” Bree intervenes out of nowhere. “He’s my boyfriend.”

“Boyfriend, huh? Interesting,” Sabrina manifests, whistling under her breath. “Does your father know?”

Bree forces a smile, but I can tell that her mom is playing with her.

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