The Boy and His Ribbon (The Ribbon Duet, #1)(30)

“Sorry.” Shaking my head free of the horrors of living in a sex-evolving body with no manual or anyone to ask if these urges were normal, I smiled at her tiny temper. “What? What am I not listening to?”

“Me. You’re not listening to me.” She stomped her foot.

I let her display of disrespect fly, finding it amusing rather than brattish. “And what were you saying?”

“Ugh.” She blew a strand of hair from her eyes like an exasperated teenager—like me—and not like a five-year-old. “You didn’t tell me. How old are we?”

Skipping back to our original topic as if my mind hadn’t turned to less innocent subjects—like it did a lot these days—I said, “I’m going to say you’re five, and I’m fifteen.”

Thank God for the kid TV program; otherwise, I would still be a stupid farm boy unable to count his own age. Then again, who knew if my math was right. It probably wasn’t and I’d just added or subtracted a year I shouldn’t.

She wrinkled her nose. “Why can’t I be fifteen, too?”

“Because you can’t.”

“That’s not a reason.”

“You haven’t been alive for fifteen years.”

“Neither have you.”

“I’m closer than you are.”

She studied me like someone studied livestock to purchase. “I don’t think you look fifteen.”

I returned her look of underwhelmed judgment. “And I don’t think you look five.”

“That’s because I’m not five.” She trotted off, heading toward one of the two diners in this sleepy town. “I’m fifteen, same as you.”

If that was the case, she’d be going through the same crazy changes I was, and I’d have someone to share this minefield with.

But she wasn’t.

She was still just a kid, and I was responsible for her happiness and well-being.

With her chin arched like a princess, she pranced right past the diner with its garish stickers of delicious looking food and loud jingling bell on the door.

I called, “Della Ribbon.”

She spun instantly—like she always did when I called her that—her face happy, eyes glowing, body crackling with obedience and energy. “Yes, Ren Wild?”

I shook my head, chuckling—like I always did when she called me that. I didn’t know where she’d come up with it.

For so long, I was used to her mimicking me and instantly recognising where she got certain mannerisms from and similarities in speech and tasks as it all stemmed from me.

But lately, she’d taken what she’d learned and adapted them to suit herself. She chose different words, spoke in different rhythms, and even attempted to do simple chores in her own way not mine.

Adding the word Wild to my first name had taken me by surprise.

I’d asked her why she called me that.

Her reply?

“Because you’re wild like the bobcats we see lurking around our dairy cow sometimes. You’re wild like the wind that blows in the trees. You’re wild and don’t have a last name so that will be your last name because it suits you and because you’re wild.”

Her child logic was simple and spot on and despite myself, my heart swelled every time she used it.

I was proud to be called Wild.

Proud that she recognised and understood me without having to spell out just how hard it was to live a domesticated life when I wanted to return to the untamed one we’d tasted for just a few short months.

“You went too far.” I strode to the diner door and pushed it open, smiling as she gawked at the bell ringing our arrival. “This is the place.”

She sidled close, tugging on my waistband for me to duck to her level. Whispering in my ear, she said, “But there are people in there. They’ll see.”

I stood and pushed her gently so she’d go ahead of me through the door and into the grease and sugar smelling diner. “I know. Don’t worry. I have it under control.”

I’d planned this for weeks. I’d ensured we both dressed smartly and didn’t look like homeless ragamuffins who didn’t eat or bathe. I’d dressed in a pair of shorts that were too short thanks to a growth spurt but still fit around my waist. My t-shirt was a little grubby with holes under the arms from scrubbing, but overall, it was presentable.

I’d even snuck out late one night while Della was asleep and broke into a house on the opposite side of town. I didn’t stay long and didn’t take anything apart from the cash in the wallet on the counter and coins from the handbag on the kitchen bench.

Thanks to a money section on the cartoon channel, I laboriously worked out I had forty-three dollars and twenty-seven cents to buy Della the best damn birthday lunch she’d ever had.

“Whoa.” She slammed to a stop in the middle of the entrance, her blue eyes dancing over everything as fast as she could.

I knew how overwhelming this would be because it was just as overwhelming for me. We’d never been around this many people. Never been to a restaurant. Never had someone cook for us.

But thanks to television, we knew the principals of it, and as much as I wanted to stay off the grid and renounce my place in the human race and truly live up to the last name Della gave me, I couldn’t.

For her.