24 Hours

Hour One, Two, Three, Four

“4 am—if I’m ever up that early, it’s because I’m up that late.
” Jarod Kintz, This Book Has No Title

Hour One, Two, Three, Four

         Telling that story and issuing that dare took a lot longer than I expected and as a result my pancakes are cold. I sigh and cut into them anyway. I grab the syrup in front of me and begin pouring it onto my pancakes.

        After a few seconds Tristan grabs my hand that is pouring the syrup. “Hey slow down there. Would you like some pancakes with your syrup?”

        And with me being me I reply, “Not really.”

        The door from the kitchen opens and Tristan is laughing. William is carrying a plate of pancakes and a cup of hot chocolate; he sets them both in front of Tristan.

        Tristan inclines his head and says, “Thanks Will.” William returns to the kitchen and Tristan digs into his food. It is interesting to watch. He doesn’t use a fork or knife to eat his pancakes, like most people do, he uses his hands and he also doesn’t eat his pancakes with syrup instead he dips them into his hot chocolate.

        “What are you doing?” I ask with amusement tingeing my voice.

        He raises an eyebrow at me. “I’m. Eating. My. Pancakes.” He says it to me like I’m a little kid and he’s not sure if I can understand what he’s saying.

        I roll my eyes. “Yes, I can see that,” I tell him, exasperated. “What I mean is why are you dipping them into your hot chocolate and not eating them with syrup, ya know like a normal person would.”

        “Well,” he looks over at me, “I guess the best answer to that question is that I’m not a normal person.”

        I huff, this guy is infuriating. “Can’t you just answer my question?”

        That arrogant smirk of his returns to his face, “I’ll make a deal with you. When you answer my question about why you told me that story then I’ll answer your question about the way I eat my pancakes.” He holds his hand out to me and I glance at it questioningly. “Deal?” he asks.

        I slip my hand into his and I can’t help but notice the contrast between our hands. His are rough and calloused while mine are soft and delicate. His handshake is firm and he lets go quickly, returning to his pancakes.

        We are both silent as we eat. I don’t drink my hot chocolate because by now the whip cream has all melted and the drink is lukewarm and really, who wants cold hot chocolate? Not this girl, that’s for sure.

        The cold drink sitting in front of me reminds me of my little brother. Whenever I let my hot chocolate sit out too long he would always end up drinking it. He loved it, said it tasted just like chocolate milk. My brother, I miss him already and based on that voicemail my mom left me he probably misses me too.

        Thinking about that voicemail makes me angry with my mom how dare she use Rider to make me feel guilty. She knows how much I love him and that I would do anything for him. She should also know that I can’t face him right now. I can’t see the tears fill his eyes and the disappointment illuminated on his face. This isn’t fair.

        I have never been so angry in my life. I’m a very calm person. I find that anger gets you nowhere. Usually all you end up with is a few bruises and you still have to deal with whatever made you angry in the first place. I take a few deep breaths in order to calm myself down and I slowly release the tight grip that I have on my fork. I carefully set it down beside my empty pancake plate.