“Come with me?” Banks asks. “I don’t wanna leave you out here alone.”
I nod. “Scared a big bad wolf will devour me?”
He turns the doorknob and shakes his head. “You were raised by wolves. If anything, you’re going to devour some poor bastard one day.”
I can’t take my eyes off him. What I’d give to know how Banks actually sees me. The saddest thought: I’ll probably never fucking find out.
Opening the door, he tells me, “I just know you hate being alone. I don’t like the idea of you standing out here waiting for him by yourself.”
That literally causes words to evaporate in my head. Leaving pure emotion. Something swells inside my throat, my chest, and I walk dazedly behind Banks while my heartbeat sputters.
Thanks for not leaving me alone, I want to say.
Words are trapped, and instead, I focus on where he’s going. I follow his footsteps into the darkly lit living room (brown leather furniture galore), then over to the nearby tiny kitchen.
The microwave and oven light cast a soft glow over the counters. Banks opens several drawers. Quietly shutting them.
“What are you looking for?” I try to whisper.
“This.” He snatches a bottle of Tylenol, then tries to twist the childproof cap. “It’s just a small headache.”
Doesn’t seem that fucking small. His jaw muscle tics like he’s gritting his teeth. He grunts out a frustrated breath, struggling to open the bottle. His headache must be like a rock concert in his temple.
I come closer and take the Tylenol from his hand. He lets me, and I easily unscrew the cap. “How many?”
“Three.”
I dole three pills into his palm.
He tosses them back, and I hand him my water bottle.
Banks takes a swig with a short nod and thanks, then washes down the pain meds. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “You want something to eat?” He rests against the counter. “I was making rigott’ and toast earlier—before Akara asked me to get the door.”
I notice the bread bag near the toaster. “Rigott’?” I ask, picking up the canister of what looks like sour cream.
“Ricotta,” he enunciates.
“You’re eating ricotta cheese on toast?”
He tries his hardest to look at me, but his headache lowers his tightened gaze. “My brother is the good cook. This is the best I got.”
“Seems like a weird combo for breakfast.”
“Says the girl who eats jellybeans on waffles.”
“I’ve only done that twice.” I untwist the bread bag. “Jellybeans are better with chocolate syrup on a spoon.”
“Anyone ever tell you that’s fucking disgusting?” He tucks his hair beneath his left ear, then right.
I take out two slices. “All the fucking time. Don’t knock it till you try it.”
“Same here,” he nods to the ricotta. “My grandma eats rigott’ and toast every morning.” He plucks the bread from my hands and pops the slices in the toaster.
“I can finish breakfast for you since you’re not feeling that great.”
“It’s just a headache, not a coma.” He rubs his eyes though, and the smile he tries to give me is brief and weak.
Still, I grab a knife for the ricotta. “I’ve never seen you complain when Thatcher does stuff for you.”
“He’s my twin. He’s duty-bound from birth to do shit for me.” He watches me pop the ricotta lid. “Look, I’m not that much of a gobbadost’—I just don’t want you to think I’m dying here.”
He’s said that Italian-American word before. Gobbadost’. For the life of me, I can’t remember what it means. So I guess, “You’re not that much of an idiot?”
Banks almost laughs. “Hardhead.”
“Fuck, I was not close.” The toast ejects. “And I don’t think you’re dying, so can I?” I reach for the warm bread.
He nods and lets me spread ricotta on the toast. “You gonna try it?”
“Just a bite.” I cringe as I keep spreading. “It looks gross, like cottage cheese.” Which has the consistency of curdled sour cream.
“Food doesn’t need to look pretty to be good.”
I drop the knife in the sink. “In my case, food that looks like a unicorn farted all over it is the best food.” I just stare at the bland finished product on the paper plate. Like maybe in a couple fucking seconds it’ll look more appetizing.
Banks picks up the toast. “Close your eyes.”
I zero in on his closeness. My breath shallows because his eyes flit around my features in a way that I almost believe he thinks I’m pretty to look at. While he towers above me, a feat in itself, I gently close my eyes. For a moment, I pretend he’s about to kiss me.
Not a gentle peck either. Like a grab your face, push you against the counter, leave you utterly fucking breathless kiss.
“Take a bite.”
Definitely not about to kiss. But I smile as the toast nudges against my shut lips. I take a tiny bite. Tasting mostly plainness. So I take a bigger one, and the ricotta is just…