Page 105 of A Taste of Vanilla

Marley’s croissant slowly lowers, and Oliver appears behind her like a summoned demon of judgment.

Warren stares at me.

My face goes tomato red.

“I mean?—”

“No,” Oliver interrupts. “Don’t explain. I want to remember it exactly as it happened.”

Marley covers her mouth and Warren’s gaze drops to the ground. His shoulders shift once. Just once.

Is he… laughing?

Is Warren King silently laughing.

I point at him. “Don’t.”

His almost smile is there. Barely.

“Okay,” Marley says faintly. “Everyone out of the kitchen before I develop a rash.”

Warren clears his throat. “I’ll go.”

He moves toward the front door, and Marley follows him, muttering something about boundaries, brothers, and sexual appliance metaphors.

Oliver lingers in the kitchen doorway, watching me.

I lift both hands. “Please don’t.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You’re about to.”

He bites his lip. Then, quietly, he says, “You okay?”

It feels like a splash of cold water.

Despite everything he could rag on me for right now, he just wants to make sure I’m okay.

I look toward the front, where Warren and Marley stand by the door, their heads bent together in an argument too low for me to hear. Marley’s face is annoyed, while Warren’s is stiff.

A sibling language I have never spoken.

I watch as Warren looks past her. At me.

I look away.

“I don’t know,” I tell Oliver, and he nods.

The bell jingles. Warren steps outside into the morning, and Marley watches him go for halfa second longer than necessary before turning back to us.

She looks tired and irritated, but still here.

I reach for the muffin tray.

“Okay,” I groan. “We open in thirty.”

Oliver stares at me. “You’re still opening?”