Page 5 of Julian

The beeping dies mid-scream. The silence is immediate and practically sacred.

Beau tilts his head at me from below, as if mildly disappointed the excitement has concluded. “Don’t look at me like that,” I tell him, climbing down. “You contributed nothing.”

My phone rings again and I grab it just before it goes to voicemail. “Hello?” I answer, breathless.

“Hey,” Dylan’s voice comes through, casual as can be, just like all seventeen-year-olds. “I’m gonna be home later. I’m at Devon’s. We’re studying for chem.”

I glance at the clock. “How late is later?”

“Not crazy late. Just… later.”

I force myself to let it go—the need to have an exact time because I’ll worry if he’s one minute late. “Text me when you’re leaving,” I say, keeping my voice light and airy but I know he’s rolling his eyes on the other end of the line. It’s a patented teenager move.

“I will.”

“And don’t take the shortcut past the park.”

Dylan sighs dramatically. “Harper.”

“Just don’t,” I say, my voice veering into the “mom” tone I try not to leverage too much because he mostly just wants me to be his older sister.

He huffs his frustration but gives me what I want. “Okay. I won’t.”

“There’ll be dinner in the fridge.” My eyes drift to the pan of charred chicken sitting on the stovetop like a warning. “Or… something resembling dinner.”

And that’s enough to get a laugh. “It’s fine. I’m not five.”

My voice softens to a tenderness that’s not forced but so very natural. The love for my brother knows no bounds, even when I want to strangle him. “I know you’re not five. Just be careful getting home.”

“I will. Love you.”

“Love you too.”

I hang up and stand there for a second, staring at the chicken. “Okay,” I mutter, grabbing a knife. “We’re not dead. We’re just… crispy. Crispy can work. Some people like crispy, right?”

I transfer the chicken to a cutting board and begin surgical excision. The knife scrapes against the charred edges as I slice off the blackened parts, revealing perfectly edible meat underneath. Not exactly Food Network, but edible.

“That’s right,” I say under my breath. “We adapt.”

Beau’s stationed himself directly at my feet, his entire body vibrating with hope. His tail thumps rhythmically against the cabinet.

“This isn’t for you,” I inform him.

His tongue lolls out in disagreement.

I stare at my masterpiece before proclaiming, “Blackened. It’s called blackened.”

I scoop the salvaged pieces into a clean bowl and turn to the stove. The rice, miraculously, hasn’t joined the rebellion. I lift the lid and a soft cloud of steam rises, fragrant and cooked to perfection.

“See?” I tell Beau. “We’re not completely incompetent.”

I fluff it with a fork, then begin assembling plates. One for me. One for Dylan.

I portion out the rice first, then layer the sliced chicken over the top, drizzling a little sauce across both plates to give everything a unified look—like this was the plan all along.

Then I pause.

I study the two plates.