Page 138 of The Next Lie

Father.

Cal’s hand pauses on the counter.

My throat tightens. I almost correct myself. Foster father. Guardian. Cal. The man who raised me and lied to me and flew to New Orleans because I stopped answering my phone. The man who used to check under my bed when I was little even though he knew monsters had never bothered hiding there.

In the end, I don’t correct it. He needs a little mercy.

Cal starts wiping again, slower this time.

Shiloh catches the shift and moves first because Shiloh is many things, but oblivious is not one of them. “Breakfast,” he says. “We should discuss this over breakfast. Preferably before Cal decides to shoot one of us on principle.”

“I didn’t bring a gun to breakfast,” Cal says. “But don’t call me Dad again.”

Nash lifts a brow.

Shiloh points at me. “You. Pants.”

I look down. “Fair.”

“No,” Nash says.

Every eye goes to him.

He looks back at us and shrugs without shame. “She can wear what she wants.”

Cal’s expression says he may die right there, standing over spilled coffee.

I sigh and head for the stairs. “I am putting on pants because I am suddenly super cold and because I refuse to be the reason Cal has a medical event.”

“I am not having a medical event,” Cal says.

“You spat coffee like a lawn sprinkler.”

“That was situational.”

Shiloh’s laugh escapes this time.

I go upstairs, put on shorts because full pants feel like capitulation, and come back down to find Cal at the stove.

The sight stops me in my tracks.

He has a mixing bowl out. Flour. Eggs. Milk. Butter warming in a pan. He found a whisk and a griddle because Cal can locate breakfast equipment in any kitchen on earth. It was one of his superpowers when I was little, right after finding lost shoes and knowing when I had a fever by touching my cheek with the back of his hand.

I know without asking: he’s making pancakes.

My favorite, once upon a time.

He used to make them after bad nights. After nightmares. After school dances I pretended not to care about, then cried in the bathroom because everyone else had mothers taking pictures.

Blueberry pancakes, if he could get them.

Chocolate chip if it was an emergency.

I stand in the doorway, suddenly unsure where to put my hands.

Cal glances over. “I found some good-looking blueberries.”

I come fully into the kitchen and lean against the island. “This house has everything.”