In Hate With You [mlm]

the eleventh debacle

Almost three weeks pass with no word from Dante. An itch burns at the back of my head every time I see him picking Ady up from school, but I shake it off. I said I'd give him time.

And then he appears at my door, Ady standing beside him, worry curling across his face.

"Dante?" I mutter, my eyes drifting across his red-rimmed eyes, and the loose strands of matted hair hanging around his face.

"Hi, James," he winces, his hands tightening protectively on Ady's shoulders.

A frown tugs at my lips, but I smile at Ady. "How are you, Ady?"

"I'm okay," she tells me, her usual excitement clouded by a heavy sadness that lingers in her eyes.

She flicks her gaze to the floor, fiddling with the straps of her rucksack. I swallow, my eyes meeting Dante's.

"What's wrong?" I ask, my breath catching in my throat. Tears gather in his eyes, and he clears his throat, lifting a hand to rub them away.

"It's my dad." He shifts his eyes away from mine, refusing to look at me. "He's in the hospital, and-"

"You can't take Ady," I realise. He shakes his head; grits his teeth.

I catch his hand in mine, soothing the back of his knuckles with my thumb.

"I can take her. Don't worry about it," I decide, watching him carefully as relief springs across his face. After a moment, I add, "And don't worry about the other day. I'm sorry I went too far."

He opens his mouth to speak - probably to apologize - but then his phone rings again, and panic builds on his features.

"Go," I urge him, guiding Ady inside. He glances at me, unsure. "Go. We'll be fine."

He allows himself one last moment of uncertainty before he leaves, casting a careful eye over me. Deja vu stings the back of my mind as I remember doing the exact same thing a few weeks ago; mixing up some food for Ady and I whilst Dante went down to the hospital.

Except this time it's different; Dante is far less calm. I remember feeling the same when my Grandfather died a few years ago. He brought me up; became my family, and losing him carved a hole in my heart.

"What do you want for dinner, Ady?" I call, shaking off the heaviness and stepping back into my flat.

She raises an eyebrow at me. "You're cooking us dinner?"

"Yes..." I drag the word out over my lips, frowning at her.

"You couldn't make breakfast last time," she reminds me, her blue eyes wide and honest. I narrow my eyes at her, and she squeaks, stepping away from me.

"I didn't mean it-" She yelps, just as I catch her in my arms and begin to tickle her. "Ja-" She giggles, wriggling about. "James!"

I set her down on her own two feet, a grin tugging at my lips.

"What do you want for tea then?" I repeat my question, and she giggles at the mock-frustration in my voice.

"Can we have..." she pauses, and I can see the cogs whirring in her mind. "Ooh, macaroni cheese!"

She picked something she knows is easy, the cheeky kid.

"I guess I could try," I sigh, and she looks at me alarmed. "I'm joking. I can make mac'n'cheese. The better question is who can't?"

We walk down to the supermarket to buy the necessary supplies - macaroni, butter, flour, milk and cheese. Ady insists we stop at the park on the way, so we get side-tracked playing on the swings for half an hour, but we do make it home with all the ingredients (and an extra tub of ice cream).

Once we're home, Ady puts me to work. She plonks herself down on the edge of the counter, and orders me around the kitchen. I chuckle as she gets the instructions mixed up, and we accidentally tip in twice as much cheese as is needed.

It's all going well; I don't burn the cheese sauce, and we manage to drain the pasta and pour it into the main dish without getting it everywhere. I turn the oven on, push the dish inside the oven, and set a timer. Ady grins at me.

"We did it!" She cheers, clapping her hands.

And then something begins to smell.

"Uh oh," I murmur, as I open the door to the oven. The cheese has bubbled over, and has fallen to the bottom of the oven to become a blackened pile of soot.

"I don't think that dish was big enough," Ady comments, her eyes widening as she takes in the mess on the bottom of my oven.

"Really?" I ask, sarcasm staining my voice.

She snickers, covering her mouth with her hand when I turn around to glare at her.

"I said I didn't think you should cook," she tells me, her words decidedly unsympathetic.

"I'm not normally this bad," I whine, determined to stick up for my cooking.

She fixes me with a look.

"I'm not." I protest, one last time. "Fine. Maybe I should've ordered take-away."