“Actually, I like a vanilla latte with one spoon of brown sugar.”
She chokes on her coffee and spits it out. She's trying to laugh, but the cough prevents it. I helpfully pat her on the back, and she laughs harder.
“A vanilla latte?”
“Yes,” I shrug, “I’m man enough to admit it.”
“Good for you.” She smirks into her cup, finally done with this nonsense. “But kind of bad for you because I don’t have an espresso machine. Only drip coffee.”
“That’s fine. Where can I get a cup?”
She points at the cabinet, and I walk to it. Inside are a few mismatched cups of different sizes, shapes, and colors. Odd, but somehow, they all… match. I take the largest mug and pour myself a coffee, filling it almost all the way to the brim.
“Got any cream?”
“In the fridge.” She answers, piling the last pancakes on the plate and turning off the stove.
Her fridge is clean and almost empty. It has milk, cream, eggs, something in jars, and that’s about it. I take the cream out, pour a hefty amount into the cup, and take a sip. No sugar coma for me.
She fixes two plates and sets them on the part of the counter that she uses as her table, takes her cup, and takes a seat on one side. I sit on the other.
Blueberry pancakes with chocolate chips. From scratch. No fucking way. I grab one with my hand and instantly get burnt. The fucker is hot! It doesn’t stop me, though, and I take a huge bite, devouring half of it in one go.
"This is so good," I say through my chewing and notice her looking at me with wide eyes. Her fork is frozen halfway to her open mouth.
“It’s just pancakes.”
“Do you think I get to eat homemade pancakes every day?” Her mouth is still open, I probably look like an animal, but I love food. So much. And I can’t cook anything that’s not microwavable. The only way I can eat good food is when I go to my parents' house, and I don't do that very often, especially in the last couple of weeks. Seeing that my mood has improved, I might visit them this week. Besides that, everyone knows the best pancakes in town are at Marina's diner, but I can’t exactly go there, so right now, I'm in heaven.
“You don’t?” She finally asks.
“I don’t.”
With that, she moves the plate of pancakes toward me, and with a sheepish smile, I pile them up on my own plate. Kayla’s slowly chewing her food as she watches me devouring everything.
“Is it always like that?” She asks.
"What's like that?" I ask with a full mouth.
“One-night stands.” With that, I choke on my food and begin coughing. She’s waiting patiently for me to respond.
“That’s what you think it was?” I put my fork down.
“What else do you think it can be?” She asks as she mindlessly plays with her food.
“I don’t know. I’ve never had this.”
“A one-night stand?” Her brows shoot up.
“No, breakfast in the morning.” My eyes shamefully dart around the room.
“What?” She puts her fork down.
“I just never did.” I shrug. “When I’m done, I go home.”
“Why? Isn’t it sad?” Her forehead wrinkles in question.
“I dunno.” I shrug. “I was young, and I had this pact with Alex to not get involved in anything serious. Then I got thrown in jail, and then I just didn’t want anyone to know about my sleeping problem.”
