Page 18 of DFF: Delicate Freakin' Flower
When we reached the porch, she let out a dramatic sigh of relief. “See, look at me, surviving. Thriving, even.”
I grunted and carried her over the threshold like we were starring in the world’s worst honeymoon.
“Okay,” she tapped me on the shoulder once we were inside. “You can put me down now.”
I started to, then hesitated—mostly because she was still sticky with aloe, and I didn’t trust my grip not to send her sliding straight onto the floor. She must’ve felt it, too, because the second I tried to shift her, one leg slipped, and sheyelped. Icaught her in both arms just before she could fall—and for a moment, we both froze.
Her face came to a stop about six inches from mine. I could smell coconut, aloe, and whatever soap she’d used. Her hair—herreal hair, finally free from that God-awful wig—was soft and messy and stuck to my shoulder. Gabby’s eyes met mine, wide and a little panicked, like she wasn’t sure whether to thank me or headbutt me.
I cleared my throat. “You good?”
“Yeah,”she said, voice squeaky. “Yeah, I’m good. Just... you know, gravity.”
“Big fan of gravity,”I muttered and finally eased her down onto her feet.
She stumbled once, caught herself on the edge of the table, and immediately looked around as if she needed something to doquickly.
“I’m making breakfast,”she declared, already bee-lining for the tiny kitchen like she hadn’t just asked me to princess-carry her over “snake-infested”grass.
“Sure you are,”I said sarcastically, following at a safe distance.
“I’m capable,”she added, flipping open a cabinet. “I’ve done hard things. Things that’d make a normal person quiver, like surveillance, research... oh, and filing my taxes without crying.”
“Impressive.”
She grabbed a carton of eggs, a small skillet, and what might’ve once been butter but now looked more like something froma science experiment. “I’m going to make you the best damn scrambled eggs this backwoods horror cabin has ever seen.”
“That’s a high bar.”
She turned on the single-burner stovetop. It made a noise like a dying cat.
“Confidence,”she pointed a wooden spoon at me, “is key.”
I leaned against the doorframe and watched her stir the eggs with intense focus. They sizzled and thensmoked.Like, really smoked.
“Um, is the pan supposed to be glowing?”
“Oh no—oh no no no?—”
Gabby scrambled to yank the skillet off the heat, accidentally flinging half-cooked eggs onto the counter. A tiny flame flickered at the edge of the burner, and she yelped, blowing on it like it was a birthday candle.
I walked over, hit the kill switch on the burner, and grabbed a nearby dish towel to smother the smoldering spot.
The room was filled with silence and obviously smoke, and there were eggs everywhere.
Gabby stood frozen with the wooden spoon still in hand, face redder than her sunburn.
“So,”I deadpanned. “Surveillance, research, and taxes.”
She groaned. “Don’t, justdon’t.”
I smirked. “Maybe tomorrow I’ll make breakfast.”
She pointed the spoon at me again. “Only if I get to fight the next spider.”
“You got it, mayhem.”
After the breakfast fire hazard was extinguished—literally and emotionally—I gave Gabby some space to recover her pride. She spent ten minutes trying to scrub egg off the wall with a sponge that had seen better decades. I didn’t say a word. Not about the eggs, not about the flaming burner, and definitely not about the dramatic “I’m capable”speech that preceded both. She needed a win, so I gave her one.
