Bookish and the Beast

He scrunches his nose. “Is this a kissing book?”

“I suppose I’ll have to read it so you can find out.”

In reply, he takes a pillow from the edge of the couch and tucks it behind his head. He settles down and waits. “I suppose you do.”

For the rest of the evening, I read to him from my mother’s favorite novel—and for a little while I can forget that my apartment went up in a (very) small fire, and that some toxic guy wants to take me to Homecoming, and my college essay is still woefully unwritten.

For a few hours, nothing matters and I think, This is the best it’s going to get.

Until the next morning when I wake up to the smell of chocolate murder pancakes.

I WAKE UP TO THE SMELL OF SOMETHING BURNING. It twinges my nose, and even when I burrow my head under the covers, the smell doesn’t go away. It’s not like an electrical fire sort of burning, or a woodfire, or any of that sort. It smells, honestly, like—

Breakfast.

Oh, that’s right. We have guests.

I spring up and tear the duvet off, scrambling out of bed. Sansa isn’t curled up at the foot of my bed, so Elias must’ve let her out already. How long have they been up? Laughter bubbles up from the kitchen downstairs. A man, and then—Elias. And Rosie. I remember now. She and her father are staying with us for the weekend.

I slide on my sweatpants and make my way to the stairs. From the top I can see Elias at the stove in his cooking apron, holding the frying pan, and Rosie’s father trying to explain to him how to flip an American pancake.

“It’s all in the wrist,” he’s saying. “You gotta feel it.”

“I’ve always been bad at flipping things in a skillet,” Elias replies, troubled.

“I believe in you!” Rosie cheers on from the barstool at the counter.

“One…two…” Then Elias flips the brown pancake. It spins through the air—misses the pan completely—and lands smack on the ground.

Everyone stares at the downed pancake.

I clap slowly.

Startled, everyone whirls around to me.

“Vance!” Elias says. Rosie’s father scoops up the sacrificed pancake from the ground and tosses it into the garbage bin. “Did we wake you?”

I put my hands in my pockets and give a half shrug. “Not really.”

“Come and eat with us,” Rosie’s father says. “We’ve got two left with your name on them! I bet you’ve never had anything like it before.”

That’s an understatement.

“I…probably have not,” I reply cautiously, sliding up to sit at the counter next to Rosie. She excitedly wiggles back and forth on the barstool, grinning, still in her pajamas, too. They have little duck prints all over them, and I’m hard-pressed to say they’re cute. But.

They’re not…not cute.

“Chocolate murder’s the only thing my dad can cook,” she whispers to me. I recall her saying something about chocolate murder pancakes earlier in the month, but nothing prepared me for the sight of what Rosie’s father placed in front of me: two cocoa-flavored chocolate chip American pancakes drizzled with syrup and powdered sugar, and topped with a maraschino cherry. He slides it to me with a smile. I stare at it like—how in the bloody hell am I supposed to eat this monstrosity?

I glance at Rosie, who apparently has already eaten, and so has everyone else.

He gives me a fork and a butter knife and says, “Try it!”

“It looks like a sugar coma,” I reply.

“That’s why it’s called chocolate murder,” Rosie chides.

The plate definitely looks like some sort of murder. The syrup runs off the side of the chocolate pancakes and pools at the edges. I lift one with the fork, inspecting the butter sandwiched between. I haven’t eaten something so unhealthy for breakfast since my mother fired my first nanny, who fed me ice cream some mornings.

I gently cut off an edge of the pancake, already drowned in syrup, and with everyone watching, I eat it, wondering how much I should act like I love it—

Until the taste explodes in my mouth. Chocolate, but more pancake-y than I realized. Fluffy, and yes the syrup is sweet, but it offsets the bitterness of the chocolate. I wouldn’t eat it every morning, but the surprise on my face is genuine.

Rosie’s father grins and leans against the counter. “So, what do you think?”

“It’s…good,” I reply, surprising myself.

Elias seems just as surprised as I am. “That’s a glowing recommendation from Vance.”

“So I passed the test?” he asked, speaking more to Elias than me.

“He’s not complaining.”

“Hey, I never complain,” I complain, and everyone laughs.

As I eat, Rosie’s father teaches Elias how to flip a pancake on the griddle, so by the time I’m done they’ve made at least five more with the leftover batter, and Rosie’s father looks rather pleased with himself. I watch him and Elias with interest as I set down my fork. I can’t eat the last few bites—it’s too sweet for me.

Rosie’s father checks his watch. “I’m heading to the apartment later to talk to the landlord and the insurance company about the damages. They have to rip up the carpet and see if the hardwood is ruined or not.”

“I’ll come with you,” Rosie says. “Just let me get dressed first.”

“You don’t have to.”

“I know, but I want to help—and besides, it’s silly to have two cars here. We can ride back here together this evening.”

Elias agrees. “And since you treated us to breakfast, I can treat you to dinner.”

Rosie’s father hesitates, but he’s won over when Elias gives him a smile. My eyebrows jerk up, and I glance over at Rosie, who is smiling from behind her fingers. Oh. Oh. “Well, all right—but just tell us when we start to impose.”

“You aren’t,” I say before Elias has a chance to, and the words surprise even me. I shove a piece of chocolate syrup–drowned pancake around on my plate. “I mean, the house is so large I didn’t notice either of you here last night.”

Rosie finger-guns her father. “And it helps we don’t snore.”

“Right you are, Rosebud,” he replies, finger-gunning her right back, and then he nods toward the stairs. “Okay, go get ready.”

She jumps off the barstool and races up to her and her father’s room. She’s down in five minutes, in jeans and a large T-shirt, pulling her hair back with a black scrunchie. Rosie’s father tries to clean up the kitchen, but Elias decides to have none of it and shoos him out.

“You cooked, I clean,” he points out.

“Fine, fine—ready to go?” he asks Rosie, putting a hand on her shoulder, and they leave through the garage.

When they’re gone, Elias gives me a sidelong look. “Not imposing, hmm?”

I spear the pancake, trying to quell the blush blooming on my cheeks. Because the Vance of a month ago would’ve not said anything. He would’ve asked them to leave as soon as possible. He would’ve hated this sweet disaster of a breakfast. He wouldn’t have admitted that, in the darkest part of his heart, it really wasn’t that bad. Instead I clear my throat and tell him, “You have a crush.”

He scoffs. “I do not.”

“Do too.”

“That’s ridiculous,” he replies, but he’s so flustered his ears are beginning to turn red. He grabs my plate from the counter even though I’m still pushing the last bite around in the syrup and dumps it into the sink to start washing it.

“Whatever you say,” I reply, and slide off the barstool. I grab Sansa’s lead and whistle at her between my teeth to take her out on a walk while he’s sorting through his feelings.

I might never have been in love, but I know what it looks like, and Elias is head over heels.

THAT EVENING, AFTER DAD AND I RETURN from the apartment, where the electrician tore out the oven and the wall that had been damaged, we ate dinner with Mr. Rodriguez and Vance again—we order Chinese this time, from the great little takeout place down the street. I didn’t realize Vance could put down so much food; it’s really quite monstrous, because I thought I was the eggroll-eating champion. Alas, it seems I was dethroned. I didn’t mind it that much.

After we watch a few hours of TV and Mr. Rodriguez retires to bed, I do the dishes with my dad and talk a little about the new oven and microwave being installed tomorrow, and the plasterwork, and having to repaint half of the kitchen again—but I really don’t mind. I hated the old appliances anyway.

“And what have we learned?” I ask, handing him the last plate.

He replies gallantly, “Never put tinfoil in the microwave.”

“Good.”

He kisses me good night and leaves for his room. I change into my pajamas and slink down to the couch again, thinking everyone has gone to bed—but I freeze on the bottom step.

I was wrong.

Vance is lying down, legs flipped up over the back of the couch, head lolling off the other side. With his eyes closed, he doesn’t look as worried or brooding as he usually does, which surprises me. I thought he probably frowns in his sleep, but he actually looks…well, not terrible to look at is the only concession I’m giving.