Under the Influence

Chapter Twelve: Meet the Brother

From the moment I descended down the stairs and sleepily trudged into the kitchen, I knew something was up. My spidey-senses were tingling, so to speak.

   I could smell the pancakes before I saw them. They had a particular scent, like a mix between butter and maple syrup, and I was immediately reminded of the pancakes my mom used to make. They were delicious, especially topped with strawberries and whipped cream and—

   I took another whiff and exhaled contently.

   “Morning,” Scott greeted as soon as I plunked down on one of the stools at the kitchen island. He momentarily stopped whistling a Christmas-y tune to shoot me a lazy grin.

   “Good morning,” I replied.

   “I made pancakes,” he told me because it obviously wasn’t clear enough by the way he kept flipping pancakes up in the air and catching them in the pan.

   “I can see that.”

   But Scott didn’t ever make pancakes. Well, he did, but the last time was so long ago that I almost forgot how amazing they were. Pancakes were my mom’s specialty, though. Now we only made them on special occasions.

   What was so special about today?

   Nothing. Or at least that was what I thought. But I was sure that if I checked my calendar, it wouldn’t tell me anything different.

   Scott turned off the stove and piled the pancakes evenly on two plates. He slid one plate across the counter to me, along with a fork. Instead of coming to sit beside me like I thought he would, he just remained standing across the island from me.

   After I doused my flapjacks with syrup, I tentatively took a bite. And let me tell you, they were almost as good as Mom’s (and considering her culinary abilities, that was saying a lot). Scott watched me intently as I took my first bite, and his face lit up with delight when he noticed my reaction.

   “Like it?”

   I nodded since my mouth was full and I thought chew-up pieces of pancake might fly out of my mouth if I tried to speak.

   “Good.” He paused. “Um, there’s something I need to talk to you about.” He shoved another forkful of his short stack into his mouth and chewed slowly, watching me.

   “Proceed.”

   Clearing his throat, Scott gently set his fork down on his plate and stared at me intently. Jeez, what was with all of this staring and watching? To be honest, I was starting to get a bit creeped out.

   Then, to make things weirder and more puzzling than they already were, he laughed and shook his head in what I assumed to be disbelief. “I can believe I’m about to say this, but—“ But before he said anything pertaining to what was actually going on (because I had absolutely no clue), he cut himself off and started again, this time a little differently. “Sometimes I wish Mom and Dad were still alive so I wouldn’t have to do these things,” he mused to himself with a sigh.

   “What things? Scott what are you talking about?”

   “Charlie, we need to talk.” I cringed. The last time he said that, he told me that we had to close Crawford Comics in a few months. I hoped that whatever he wanted to discuss now wasn’t anything like that.

   “We are talking,” I replied slowly.

   “No, I mean I have to have a chat with you.” And now he was just rephrasing things he already said before. I was completely lost.

   “Uh, yes, Scott, that’s exactly what we’re doing right now. Having a chat.”

   He groaned in frustration and ran a hand through his hair, slightly exasperated. “The Talk, Charlie, we’re going to have The Talk!” he blurted out. “Do you understand now?”