Beside

39 - comfort

"I didn't mean to make mommy mad. I was just trying to help."

"Maybe she's tired. Grown-ups get like that."

"But she hasn't come back yet. Everything I do is wrong."

"It's not wrong, Fox. You're not wrong."

ｃｈｒｉｓ

Waiting. Again.

The apartment is quiet, shadows stretching long across the counter where I sit with my legs swinging, a half-eaten bowl of Cheerios balanced on my thighs. It's late again. I shouldn't be up, but it's like my body has a mind of its own, waiting for something. Well, someone.

And then I finally hear the creak of the front door.

Fox stumbles in, looking every bit like he's walked straight out of a storm. His tee-shirt's wrinkled, sandy brown hair tangled into a mess, eyes blue-hued and tired. It's jarring—so much so that I feel my fingers turn to blue ice, stuck still. Like seeing him through a cracked mirror.

"Where were you?"

The words snap out before I can stop them, as sharp as the ice in my fingers.

"Slept at the gym," he mutters as he kicks off his shoes, his voice raspy like he's worn it down to its edges. By screaming? Crying? Begging? Shouting?

"Fox." Oh, how my stomach twists and twists. "What happened? Are you okay?"

He glances at the bowl in my lap. "Is that your dinner?"

I nod, swallowing hard, feeling oddly self-conscious. "Cheerios."

His mouth quirks up, almost amused, mostly sad. "You put bananas in there at least?"

My head nods slowly, almost of its own accord, but how does he know I do that?

"Good." He walks over, stepping past me toward the cupboard. He reaches for a glass, filling it at the sink, and then downs the water in one long gulp. He sets the glass down, exhaling hard, his shoulders sagging. "That's good."

I watch him, the edges of my sewn-together heart fraying, wishing I knew what to say. But no one ever does.

He straightens. "Let me make you something with a little protein."

I start to shake my head. "No, Fox, you don't have to—"

"Stop. Let me. This is easy."

I stop. I let him. I trust him when he says it'll be easy when I know it's not. Carrying all that weight is not easy.

Fox opens a few cabinets, his movements still slow. When he reaches under my feet, I fold my legs under me so he can get a pan. It lands on the stovetop, the knob turned to medium-low, the burner lighting up cherry-red.

What follows is eggs, oil, a few spices, and cooked rice in a plastic-wrapped bowl from the fridge.

"You wouldn't know this, but Noah's usually the cook," he says, cracking the eggs in the oiled pan. "He's got all these recipes—his father's mostly. But with how busy he's been lately, he's left us to fend for ourselves." He glances at me, and I catch the faintest smile, like he's letting me in on a secret. "Cam's useless unless it's got protein powder, and I haven't been allowed to eat much lately." He shrugs. "But I like cooking for people."

I watch him move through the kitchen, stirring the eggs and rice together, adding spices that fill the space, like he's done this a hundred times before. The worry unspools just enough for warmth to thaw the cold ache in my fingers. That's when Fox steals my soggy Cheerios and puts them where I can't reach, sending me a mock disappointed look.