Page 83 of Go Back to December

He speaks so softly that I lean closer to hear him.

WHACK. CRACK. WHIRRRRRRRRRRRRRR.

The commercial-grade juicing blender roars to life in the kitchen.

Baz growls and lurches, but he’s trapped in the boots.

Pot lids crash together like cymbals. “Wakey, wakey!” Luiza brackets her wake-up call by batting a wooden spoon on a pot. “Chow time!”

I scramble to release Baz from his restraints. As he vaults out of the bedroom, his bellows are louder than the blender and the pots and pans combined.

“LUIZA!”

There is an excellent chance he’ll make good on his promise to shove an appliance down her throat.

I stumble to the bathroom and throw on my clothes. When I finally reach the kitchen, the two of them are locked in some type of silent showdown. Luiza sits on one of the barstools. Baz leans menacingly on his crutches.

“You little shit,” he grinds out.

Luiza glances at the kitchen counter, which is laden with a spread of breakfast ingredients. Her frosty glare dares Baz to hurt her with his rejection of whatever the array of food is supposed to mean.

Baz senses her trap, and the fight fizzles out of him. His stance relaxes, and almost tenderly, he says, “You are such a spoiled brat.”

As he limps to the stove, Luiza’s mouth curves between a smile and a pout.

“Luiza, you could have at least cracked the fucking eggs!”

“Your rules, asswipe. No interfering.” She flips him the bird as she tosses me an eye roll. “Does he make you put up with this crap every day?”

Baz spews foul words over the rapid drumming of a knife falling on the chopping board, and the scraping of a whisk against the bowl. It takes me the length of several shallow breaths to register that Baz is chopping and whisking. He’s expertly prepping food, navigating his luxury kitchen like a model-chef influencer.

All on one good leg.

I murmur something about helping, and Luiza crows like a crone. “Do you know my brother beyond the biblical sense?”

“Holy Christ.” Baz spins around and aims his kitchen tongs at his sister like they’re a fencing foil. “Apologize. Now.”

She mumbles an apology, and Baz turns back to the stove.

“As I was saying,” she continues. “Helping is interfering. Not allowed. Baz always does breakfast. As long as everyone else stays the hell away while he’s making it.”

“Baz always does breakfast,” I repeat, mesmerized by his prowess as he flips the omelet over in the pan with a flick of his wrist, no spatula, broad shoulders flexing beneath his fitted T-shirt. With the other hand, he deftly snatches the sizzling bacon to drain on a paper towel-lined plate. I’m dizzy with the savory smell of herbs and smoked meat, intoxicated by the choreography of his movements.

Reaching across the counter, Baz hands Luiza a plate of made-to-order breakfast, turned out in minutes. She shoves the food into her mouth and sighs happily, with no verbal expression of appreciation. No different from most customers at the café.

“Baz always does breakfast.”

I thought I was whispering, but with breakfast occupying Luiza’s mouth, my words ring out loudly.

Baz stiffens. Like a kid who realizes his mother was watching out for him to stick his hand in that cookie jar.

Luiza stops chewing. “You dickwad. You don’t make breakfast for your girlfriend when she stays over?”

He whirls on her, lips ready to launch cutting insults, but his eyes catch mine first.

“Baz always does breakfast.”

This time I’m whispering because I’m in danger of crying.