Page 25 of Cuckoo
It was our thing.
Wistfully, I followed him into my kitchen. “I’m starving, but you’ll have to eat my quesadilla now. I’m stealing all the yumminess in that bag.”
He snorted. “You’ll share? How thoughtful.”
I eagerly ripped open the paper bag as he set it on the counter, popping a fry into my mouth. A moan escaped. I couldn’t remember the last time I stopped for In-N-Out. I tried to eat healthy, limiting my consumption of processed, salty, and sugary foods. But this? It was too delicious to pass up.
Rain, err Cuckoo, laughed. He unwrapped a burger and handed it to me, opening up packets of warm ketchup to dip our fries in. We stood side by side, devouring the food and enjoying it vocally while we stuffed our faces.
“Oh, wow,” I giggled after I burped. “This hit the spot.”
“Good to know.” He picked up all the trash and tossed it in the can, reaching for one of the triangles of chicken quesadilla on the forgotten plate I left on the counter. After dipping in sour cream and salsa, he took an enormous bite.
I watched him eat, shaking my head at the amount of food he could shove down his gullet. I’d forgotten his ravenous appetite.
“You still eat a lot,” I observed.
“You’ve no idea.” He sent me a lecherous smile.
“Well,” I began, not quite knowing how to answer him. “Did you just come over to bring me dinner?”
“Nope.” He took the empty plate to the sink and rinsed it before shutting off the water. “Thought we could play a little game.”
Game? I frowned. “What kind of game?”
“Truth or dare.”
Uh, hard pass. “No.”
He shrugged. “How about we catch up on the last twelve years? You tell me your secrets, and I’ll confess mine.”
Not likely.
“I don’t think there’s a lot to tell.” He frowned. “At least on my end,” I added.
He ticked his chin toward my couch. “Come on.”
I trailed behind him, taking a seat as he scooted closer.
Cuckoo’s arm draped across the top. With his fingertips, he lightly caressed the bare skin along the back of my neck. “Still so soft,” he murmured.
“Were you ever adopted?” I blurted, shifting slightly as his fingers fell away from my skin. I shivered, both by the absence and by the hint of longing left behind.
“No.” He leaned back, briefly focusing his attention out the window. “I ran away at seventeen.”
He did? “Were you okay?” Did something happen to him? Was he hurt? More than usual?
“After you left, I got pissed. Shit got worse.” A muscle in his jaw ticked. “As soon as I could get the fuck away, I did.”
Outside, I heard a crow cawing. It wasn’t like the sound earlier today. This was melancholy. Almost haunting.
Now that I thought about it, I heard crows whenever he was near me. As kids, we used to joke that only blackbirds cared about us since they followed us wherever we went.
I reached for him, placing my hand over the one gripping his knee. “I’m sorry.”
His head snapped to the left, pinning me in place. “Don’t do that. Don’t ever fucking apologize for shit that isn’t your fault.”
Okay. I tried to pull my hand away, but he held it, threading our fingers.
