Girl Out of Water(70)

Fifteen


I wake to the clanging of pots and pans and possibly the most delicious scent that’s ever existed. The room is dim with only a dusting of dawn light. I don’t know if I’ve ever been so flat out exhausted, but that scent entreats me to pry open my eyes. I’m exactly where I fell asleep on Wendy’s bed. Lincoln is on a trundle bed on the floor. And Wendy herself is nowhere in sight.

“Lincoln,” I mumble, my voice thick with sleep. “What’s going on? What time is it?”

He rolls over in bed. I can barely see his shadow in the dark room, but I can tell he’s looking in my direction. “What?” he mumbles in sleepy confusion. Then he sits up and says, “Oh my god. Yes. Yes. Yes!”

“Umm…what?” I ask.

Lincoln launches himself up from the trundle bed to where I’m resting in a pile of warm blankets. His face is so close to mine I think he’s going to kiss me, which normally I wouldn’t mind, but I probably have middle-of-the-night breath, which isn’t exactly attractive. But he doesn’t kiss me, he just says, “Miller Breakfast!”

“What?”

He tugs my arm, dragging my sleep-heavy limbs out of bed. “Come on. Get ready for the best experience your stomach has ever had.”

“Wait, what time is it?” I’m still in my clothes from yesterday, so I slip my phone out of the pocket of my jean shorts. It’s four in the morning. Who eats breakfast at four in the morning?

Lincoln guides me through dark hallways he seems familiar with. A flood of light comes from the same direction as that heavenly scent. We step into the kitchen. It’s older like mine in Santa Cruz but equipped with dozens more pots, pans, and appliances, which is saying something considering Dad’s rather large collection. Wendy is at the stove, along with her parents. They’re both fully dressed like it’s the middle of the day, not the middle of the night. Music plays from a radio. I think it’s a Temptations song. Wendy and her parents sing along, occasionally pounding spatulas and whisks to the beat, reminding me of Tess’s family in their restaurant, singing along with the radio at top volume while prepping dishes for the day.

“Hey guys!” Lincoln yells over the music.

Wendy whips around and smiles. “Hey! Figured I’d let the bacon wake you up.”

“Mission accomplished,” I say, forgetting my shyness and stepping close to the sizzling skillets. “That smells amazing.”

In addition to bacon, I spy pans of eggs, sausage, and hash browns. There are also trays in the oven, and an assortment of pastries on the counter. Wendy’s mom greets us. She’s the same height as Wendy, but has long hair almost down to her waist. It’s tied back in a braid, probably so one of the many burners doesn’t set it on fire, and a hot pink streak threads through it.

She hugs Lincoln and then me. “Please, call me Lisa. So nice to meet you.”

I smile back but have trouble saying anything but, “You too.”

This is all a bit overwhelming, especially since part of my brain is still asleep. Wendy’s dad, white and almost as short as Lisa, also turns from the stove and introduces himself as Sam. Then he says, “Please, please sit down.”

“You sure we can’t help?” Lincoln asks.

Everyone bursts out laughing. “I think not,” Lisa says. “Remember when we let you cook the bacon last time? You ate it all before it made its way to a plate.”

Lincoln has the decency to look a bit sheepish. “I was hungry. Fourteen and growing.”

“Who’s to say you’re not still growing?” Sam asks.

Lincoln already towers over everyone in the kitchen. “Sit, sit!” Sam repeats, ushering us toward the kitchen table.

I settle into one of the wooden chairs. They all have soft seat cushions in different fabrics, like scraps bought from the bargain bin at a craft store. I like the look. It feels homey. Lincoln takes my hand under the table and idly rubs his thumb against my skin. Here I am, half-asleep, in the middle of who knows where, salivating over a strange family’s breakfast, and through all of that, I’m suddenly turned on. Like, what is that even?

I keep my eyes on the action in the kitchen, where the entire family is too busy cooking to pay attention to us, but that does nothing to deter Lincoln. He leans forward and nuzzles his head into the crook of my neck, planting half a dozen soft kisses on the sensitive skin. Middle-of-the-night breath, Middle-of-the-night breath, I chant to myself. But that doesn’t keep me from kissing him, a kiss that lasts half a second but keeps my lips buzzing long after.

“Hungry?” he asks, smiling deviously.

My cheeks flame. “Shut up.” I turn back toward the kitchen and catch Wendy watching us. She winks, then goes back to cooking. I’m embarrassed. I hate PDA. And PDA in someone else’s kitchen while they’re cooking you breakfast is worse than average.

Ten minutes later, we’re all sitting around the kitchen table digging in. This seriously puts yesterday’s diner breakfast to shame. Bacon, turkey bacon, sausage, veggie sausage, eggs (fried, over easy, and scrambled), roasted potatoes, hash browns, veggie casserole, bagels, biscuits, muffins, whole grain toast, scones, and so on.

I pile my plate with a little of everything. My stomach growls loudly since I was barely able to eat yesterday. I let everything combine so that every forkful is a mix of the feast. “Thank you for doing this for us,” I say between bites. “Seriously this is above and beyond.”