“They’re not burning, I swear!” Addie flips a pancake. It’s not burnt, exactly, but it’s past golden brown.
“It’s the chocolate chips.” Mmm melting chocolate. Not mmm burnt chocolate. My nose is confused. “They burn faster.”
I turn the heat to low. Push the window all the way open. Is it hotter in here or out there?
Either way, it’s stuffy as hell.
She nods right, of course. “Sorry? Did I wake you? I can turn it down.” She motions to the speaker in the corner. One of those wireless ones that connects to her computer. A present for her birthday. Well, our birthday, I guess. Since it’s for me as much as it’s for her.
“And ruin the mood? How else will I wake up to sadness?”
Her lips curl into a frown. That reminder neither one of us wants. The day, more than a year ago now, she almost died.
“It’s not—”
“We can play Green Day instead.”
Addie’s face scrunches with displeasure. She has absolutely no interest in “suburban boys who want to pretend they’re anarchists.” Or “men who spend eight straight songs whining about their exes.”
She has a point. If I had to critique swap one of these songs with a classmate, I’d have a different take.
But some things stick. Like the music Dad always played when we were younger. It should repel me—anything that man loved is bad news—but what is it they say?
The heart wants what it wants?
Not that I listen to mine. Not anymore.
My eyes flit to the clock on the wall—the cheap pink one from Target. For all her STEM nerdiness (she’s a chemistry genius), Addie is a total girly girl. Pink and purple everywhere. Only it’s pink leggings and t-shirts.
She rocks low-effort cute like it’s her job. No makeup, ashy hair in a messy bun, pink tank top.
“You need help with those?” I motion to the pancakes. No longer smoking. Smelling a lot more like chocolate and vanilla and a lot less like burnt flour.
My stomach growls. I’m starving. And dead tired.
I need caffeine.
“I got it. I swear,” she says.
I motion to the kettle on the counter. “Set it for me, please. I have to pee.”
She nods of course. Calls out an apology for waking me as I run to the bathroom.
Another small space. With the world’s smallest window.
Ah, the charms of the city. Really, I love New York. It’s home.
When things were better, when Dad was working and sober, we visited Jersey, Florida, California, Iowa, Hawaii, Vegas. Sometimes family. Sometimes work. Sometimes fun.
Lots of places appealed. Constant sunshine and gorgeous beaches in California. Houses the size of a city block and fields of grass in Iowa. Bright lights and—
Okay, Vegas is like Times Square on New Year’s Eve. All drunk people. No reason to visit.
New York is special. Unlike anywhere else. At least in the US.
Is Ian from London? Or is it that I can’t name any UK cities outside of London?
Edinburgh. That’s a place. There’s the countryside. In that show Broadchurch. Or the other countryside in Happy Valley. God, I watch some depressing shit.
And I’m already in a bad situation.
Thinking about Ian as I pee, wash my hands, brush my teeth.
Even as I move into the kitchen and fix my chai. Extra strong tea, lots of almond milk (Addie is a vegetarian, but she’s trying to go vegan).
A tiny sprinkle of cinnamon.
Another thought of Ian.
Is that his real name? Or is he really some sort of operative?
And why do I keep—
“You okay?” My sister shoots me a curious look.
“Tired.” I try to avoid lying to her, but it’s not always possible. I don’t want her to know how much I’m struggling. I want to protect her from that.
“You sure?”
I nod yeah. Take a long sip of my chai. Sigh over the perfection that is cardamom. Or maybe the cloves are better. Hard to say.
Even with the sweltering weather, I need my morning tea.
The rest of the day, iced whatever, whenever. But first thing in the morning, chai. Always.
This isn’t great tea. It’s what I can buy off Amazon for fourteen cents a bag. The crushed leaves no one wants. It takes three bags to bring flavor, but with milk and extra cinnamon, I can barely tell.
“Maple syrup?” she asks.
It’s not real maple syrup. We can’t afford that. But why point out the artificial flavors? “I’m okay.” I motion to the honey on the table. It’s a little strange on pancakes, sure, but it doesn’t taste like it was made in a lab.
She nods okay, brings pancakes and tea to the table, sits across from me.
I hold up my mug. “To your cooking.”
“Taste it first.”
“Even so.”
She gives me that you’re ridiculous look, but she still taps her mug against mine.
I smile as I take a sip. Cheap, oversteeped tea. Slightly burnt pancakes. Bulk honey. Discount chocolate.
It’s not the finest breakfast in the world. But, here, with my sister across from me.