FIFTEEN | BISQUICK
The car lays abandoned along a camera-less street, nearly three block over from her apartment. Theirs is a causal stroll through the town, one lacking destination and intent beyond experiencing the presence of the other. Emmett revels in her company, grateful she has yet to run away, yet to say anything more about their slightly illegal endeavor, though he begins to doubt such is her first. He watches her, watches the faint breeze blow a few strands of her hair free and tinge her cheeks the slightest of pinks. He watches her with the faint memory of Heitor's warning all those weeks ago. He watches her, disregarding the warning because she might be dangerous but how can he run away from someone who ignites an ember within him long believed to be burned out, who finally makes him feel alive. Composed of heartbreak and hidden pasts, he wonders if she will be the one who helps him forget.
Jett feels him watching her, and she revels under his gaze, revels in the chaos she craves invoked within her at his simple glance. She feels him watching her, enjoying his company in a manner she thought long deceased when company is so easy for her to come by, but his company is something different all together. She feels him watching her, feels the lingering traces of his lips on hers and his hands on her hips and the harmony of his voice, feels the confusion burning within her as to why he, of all her company in the past, holds such a substantial, horrendous effect on her. Composed of secrets and sweet lies, she wonders if his effect is nothing more than such as well.
Neither share a word on their stroll, neither feeling the need to fill the time with anything beside the passing of a cigarette between them, smoke encircling them in a bubble of contentment. Theirs is a casual stroll through the town, the only light being that from the fading sun and the streetlights. With laughter in their midst at something stupid Emmett surely said, the two walk towards her apartment, having no other place in mind.
Her laugh melodizes in his ears, but when he looks at her, for some reason unbeknownst to him, all the warnings to "Be careful" he has received since first engaging with her resurrect in his mind once more. A moment of panic, of concern for himself, manifests because already he feels an ineffable attachment to her which he wonders if he should break, if he could break. So many what if's loom before them: what if she breaks him further, what if she ruins his reason for abandoning his hometown to come here, what if she runs away. A cloud of possibilities, both benevolent and malevolent alike, only a fine line separating the two, haunt them in the nearing future, and Emmett fears the cloud more than he cares to admit. He fears what is to happen next, fears from the warnings of all which she is capable. But then, he looks at her once more, and her laugh melodizes in her ears, and suddenly, all the warnings slip his mind once more.
Their truths will inevitably one day be revealed, as all truths inevitably are, but for now, her laugh melodizes and ignites a fire within him while his company affects her unlike any of the past and rouses the passion within her she craves, and for now, all shall be as well as it can as they casually stroll through the town, willfully ignorant of how they are only destined for destruction.
They pass a familiar alley way, though both are too lost in their own thoughts and the other to even consider acknowledging the ongoings nestled deep between the brick walls.
Christine drags a hand rather aggressively through her hair, blonde strands tangling themselves around her fingers, while she paces back and forth between the older man. His hands rest on his beer belly, one reaching up to scratch the ragged stubble outlining his jaw, watching the girl utterly unamused.
"You were supposed to have the shipment last week," the girl rages. "What the hell am I supposed to tell my clients?"
The older man shrugs. "Maybe to not do business with a ten year old."
"I'm nineteen!" her voice rings in a shrill accompanied by a drawn-out groan. In the time since she had taken over her father's business, the older man had been nothing short of infuriating. Sure, Christine was younger than most, but age means nothing in this business. Or, so she thought before people continued to belittle and underestimate the younger girl. She is half-tempted to call her dad and ask him to coerce the older man to hand over what he rightly owes her, but she quickly reminds herself that doing such would only cause more problems to her reputation than benefit this situation.
The girl stops pacing, closing her eyes while forcing herself to take a calming breath. Summoning all the courage and strength within her, Christine turns to face the older man, walking up to him. Her height offers no leverage to her intimidation attempt, the top of her head barely reaching the older man's chin, forcing her to look up at him. He is tempted to laugh, but then, he sees the crazed look in her green eyes and swallows his chuckle.
Christine may be young and small, but she had been to enough of these meetings with her dad before he left to know what to do, what to say to get what is wanted. So, the older man should not have been surprised to see what she retrieved from her back pocket considering who her father is. Tom had always been known around the block for his intimidation techniques, particularly with the very same pocketknife currently clutched in the younger girl's hand.
She opens the knife, twirling it in her hands, silently admiring the way the sun overhead glistens against the blade. In the split second it takes for the older man's blood to run cold at the sight, Christine plunges the knife into his left shoulder, the blade sinking deep into his tissue. She moves closer to him, ignoring the rancid smell of his breath when standing up on her tip toes to get closer to his ear.
"If you don't have the shipment by this time next week, who knows where my knife might end up next," Christine says calmly.
The older man finally releases the breath he had been holding when she removes the knife, wiping his blood on his shirt until the blade is clean enough to reflect the sun once more. Retracting the blade and returning it to her back pocket, Christine takes a step back. She offers him a smile, her crazed eyes quickly fading to a lighter, youthful green gleam.
"I'll see you around, yeah?"
She does not bother waiting for a response, already turning to depart from the alley and rejoin with the few pedestrians walking on this far side of downtown. The smile still rests softly on her lips while she extracts her phone and earphones from her pocket. She nestles the buds in her ears and opens Spotify to shuffle the Tangled soundtrack. Christine skips down the sidewalk, excited to call her father and relay the day's events to him, humming along to the music flooding her ears.
"Can we make pancakes when we get back?" Jett suddenly says.
Rather amused, though hardly surprised by her random inquiry, Emmett chuckles lightly, mostly to himself. "Depends on what kind."
"Pecan, of course," she acts as though the answer could not be more obvious.
"Never had them," he says.
"You've never had pecan pancakes?" Jett asks as though such is the most sinful, most horrendous indiscretion of which she has ever heard. Her mind drifts to her childhood, standing in the kitchen with her grandmother, eating frozen pecans straight from the bag before chopping them to put in the batter. If only life had remained so simply blissful.
When Emmett shakes his head, the young woman sighs. "Look," she says pointedly. "You're in the South now, and we function off butter, cheese, crisco, and pecans. It's about time you come to experience and embrace it if you are going to be staying here for a little bit."
His chuckle sounding just the slightest bit louder this time, he wonders if "Staying here" refers to staying in Georgia or staying with her. He follows her up the steps of her building at which the two arrived just now. The keys jingle in her hand, one inserting into the apartment lock, sticking slightly before turning to permit their entrance. The apartment appears just as it was left, everything out of place and not worth noting. Flicking the lights on, Jett immediately heads towards the kitchen to start preparing her beloved pecan pancakes.
"Are we making them from scratch?" Emmett asks.
"Does Bisquick count?"
He rolls his eyes. "Some Southern chef you are."
She shrugs her shoulders, unfazed. "I'm just using my resources."
Jett begins to scour for the proper ingredients amongst the cupboards, collecting the few she deems necessary to prepare. Emmett opts to just leave her be in her endeavors and shuffles towards the bed instead, finding it much comfier than the sole lounge chair off to the side, in this particular moment at least. Eggs cracking and faucet running and spoon hitting the side of the bowl sound throughout the four walls, who stand as silent observers protecting them from the destruction which surely lays ahead.
She appears so mundane in that moment, making pecan pancakes as she once did with her grandmother all those seemingly lifetimes ago, and something so simple makes Emmett fall that much harder. His mind is a whirlpool of twisting thoughts as he watches her. He knows how she drinks her coffee and how she likes to be touched; the way she bites her lip when concentrating and fiddles with her fingers when nervous, though she hardly ever is; that her drink of choice is simply vodka and club soda and that her foot constantly taps the cadence to whichever song is in her head at the moment when she sits. He knows her, and yet, he doesn't even know where she is from, let alone anything more. It bothers him, his lack of knowing. All the warnings he receives are slowly seeking deep into his brain, and yet he continues to push them away because watching her in such simplicity makes him fall that much harder.
"Can you butter them when I put them on the plate?" Jett asks, once more pulling him from the depths of his thoughts.
"Yeah," Emmett says, climbing off the bed. He walks into the kitchen and immediately reaches for the knife and butter laid nearby.
The buttered stack grows in height until the batter runs dry, the pancakes slowly growing larger the more made as though she has grown bored of the task. Jett cuts off the stovetop and searches through the proper drawer for two forks before urging the young man towards the bar for their post-car thieving snack.
Emmett looks at her, at the soft smile on her lips. He looks at her and wonders who the hell she really is without ever actually asking because while part of him longs to know the truth, the other part of him fears why it is so hidden away.
"They're good," Emmett says after a couple bites. "They're really good actually."
"I told you!" Jett says, "Never doubt someone from the South when it comes to food."
He laughs with her as though his mind is not slowly collapsing in on itself. He laughs with her because what else is he to do when she is the embodiment of unanswered questions and all he has is questions, questions about who she is and what they're becoming.
"Are you staying?" Jett asks, placing the empty dishes in the sink. He stares at her for a moment before the words manage to process, and the moment they do, something resonates within him, and he already knows the answer.
"Always."
20 may 2023, 12:46