betty ↳ conrad fisher

seven.

DINNER IMPLICATIONS

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"Please just—just stir the tea. It's not that hard." Betty Graham said from where she was standing, her head shaking as she gestured towards her brother. She had asked Nick for help making the beverage while she cooked dinner, not taking into account the fact he was unable to do anything without constant instruction. She used the spatula to cook  from the grill, her neck turning red from frustration as she tried not to scream at her brother.  "Just—just leave it! I'll do it! Damn! Go inside."

"Okay fuck you." Nick said, dropping the spoon into the drink and flipping his sister off. He hurried in through the sliding doors, trying to make a point by how quickly he left as she groaned over the fact he could hardly do anything. She scooped the last bit of burgers off of the grill, making her way towards the platter and then headed towards the pitcher of iced tea, stirring it somehow in a more satisfying way than her brother had and then taking it inside and placing it on the countertop.

Her anxiety had skyrocketed, the talking from the living room making her stomach turn. It had been awhile since they had entertained guests , since she had, and for obvious reasons these guests meant a lot more. It was a terrifying thought that she could make something wrong or gross and they would forever remember the fact she couldn't cook, or that she was bad at it. She just couldn't have that bad rap on her...she had to do it correctly and on her own. Everything had to be perfect, and while she appreciated her brothers help, if something went wrong it would still fall back onto her, and she really couldn't risk it. She busied herself with playing some toppings and setting out cups, her thoughts appearing like a to do list in her head.

Conrad Fisher sat dutifully in the living room, the boy not keen on admitting that he had taken the far chair so that he could see into the kitchen. He had been fighting with himself for the entire time they had been there to not look at her, to not watch her as she prepared their food. He could see her out of the corner of his eye from time to time, and he thought that was enough. His interest hadn't been in the conversation at all, the boy only thinking about the fact that they were in her house, that the two of them had made memories in every room of this house. That before there was this sad little stage of nothing, there was life in this home. He tried not to think about her, his eyes flickering between Belly and Jeremiah and Steven and back to Belly and he thought she looked pretty with her hair pulled back the way it was.

A loud clanging noise made him turn his head, the boy cursing himself for letting her capture his attention. She looked concentrated, like she could do anything—although she was only putting lettuce on a plate. He heard his name from what he presumed was his mothers mouth it didn't register in his mind, the boy using the arms of the chair to push himself up. He walked into the kitchen like he was in a trance, the girl having just darted out of there and towards the patio. Just as he hoped she was carrying two big platters of whatever she had been grilling, her arms too full for comfort. He hurried towards the door, blocking her way inside and surprising her with his presence.

"Here let me help you." He said, reaching towards one of the big platters. She didn't even get the chance to argue before he grabbed the plate, their hands brushing together as he assisted her. His breath caught when their hands touched but he played it off, her eyebrows furrowed as he stayed put in front of her. She scowled at him, he knew how incredibly independent she was, and he knew how much she hated asking for help. She would rather drop the platter than ask for someone's help.  She almost wanted to argue just because it was him...but she didn't, and she couldn't, because he walked away before she could even say anything.