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“Nothing, sweetheart,” he says.
He’s lying. I know he’s lying.
And then Auntie Bess walks in with a basket of eggs.
* * *
She doesn’t knock. She never knocks. She just walks right in, sees us on the counter, and stops.
I scream. Rowan doesn’t even flinch. He just moves his body to block me and looks at her over his shoulder, completely calm, still locked inside me.
“Morning,” he says.
Auntie Bess looks at him. Looks at me. Looks at the flour.
Then she looks at the pickle on the table. The one with honey all over it.
Her eyes go narrow.
“Hattie Ashby,” she says slowly. “Is that a pickle with honey on it?”
“Auntie, can you please get OUT of my kitchen?”
She sets the eggs down on the table. Very carefully. Then she backs out the door and shuts it behind her.
Through the window, I watch her walk real calm all the way to the gate. And then she picks up her skirt and takes off running.
“What the hell was that?” I ask.
Rowan doesn’t answer. He just kisses the top of my head.
* * *
The next morning, I throw up in the bucket.
The roof bucket. I don’t even make it outside. Rowan cracks an egg into the pan, the smell hits me, and that’s it. Bye, porridge.
He’s right there. He holds my braids back and rubs my back, slow circles, and he doesn’t say a single word. When I’m done, he hands me a cup of water and a cool cloth for my neck.
He already had the cloth ready.
I wipe my mouth and look up at him. “Okay. What is going on?”
He looks back at me, calm, with this soft thing in his eyes I can’t read.
“I think you should go see somebody.”
“Who? Mister Pell?”
His mouth twitches. “If you want.”
* * *
Mister Pell’s shop smells like vinegar and feet.
I tell him everything. Well, almost everything. The tired, the pickles, the throwing up, my sore boobs, which he writes down without blinking. I leave out the horny. Mister Pell doesn’t need to know about the horny.
He listens to my chest through a little wooden tube. Looks at my tongue. Hums the whole time like he’s figuring out something very serious.
