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Kyle fidgets with his phone at the dining room table. I flip a pancake, watch him out of the corner of my eye. He seems agitated this morning, which is unlike him. He's usually calm, cool, and collected.
His thumbs angrily swipe across the screen before he drops his phone, runs his hands through his tousled hair, lets out an exasperated sigh.
I want to ask him what's wrong, but I don't know if I should. It seems too intimate. It's not like I'm his...girlfriend...
Wait, am I?
Should I ask him?
We love each other.
I'm overthinking this, aren't I?
I shake my head, my blond hair whipping carelessly through the air as the creamy batter bubbles on the skillet. I slide the spatula beneath it, flip it over.
Kyle walks up behind me. He snakes his arms around my torso, kisses the side of my face. "Thank you for making breakfast."
I lean back into his hard chest. "My grandma taught me how to make pancakes."
We both chuckle. Mom can only make three or four dishes well, which is why Dad does most of the cooking. And by cooking, I mean grilling on the barbeque. The fact that I can make pancakes from scratch is almost a miracle.
"I'm so glad you're here," he says as his arms tighten around me. His phone vibrates on the table again and his body strains against my back.
"Everything OK?" I ask as I nod my head in the direction of his phone. He keeps his arms around me as I turn off the stove, use the spatula to pick up the last pancake and slide it onto the platter. I slice through the stick of butter and drop a chunk onto the pancake, watch as it melts, a pool of amber glistening against the golden-brown dough.
Kyle grabs the orange juice from the fridge as I carry both the pancakes and bowl of fruit to the table.
"I don't know," Kyle finally answers as he sits down. "It's...it's my mom."
My forehead furrows as I set everything down. "What do you mean?"
I grab two pancakes, plop them onto my plate. I reach for the syrup, dark brown liquid pumps out of the glass container, cascades down the hot cakes. Then I grab a spoonful of strawberries and raspberries and blueberries and pile it on top.
Kyle raises an eyebrow, shakes his dark head. "You and your sugar obsession."
I lift a shoulder, flash my eyebrows at him. "No comment this morning about eating something healthier?"
He licks his lips hungrily, points to the stack of pancakes. "Not after you spent all morning making these."
"Never stopped you before," I roll my eyes playfully.
His phone vibrates again, and he picks it up, runs a tired hand through his hair. I can tell he wants to tell me what's going on, but he can't seem to find the words.
"If you need to talk about it," I glance at him from across the table, "maybe I can help."
He scratches his chin, the faintest trace of black stubble shadowing his jaw, making my insides flood with heat. I didn't think it was possible, but unshaven Kyle is sexier than clean-shaven Kyle.
"I keep getting these weird texts from her," he reveals. "On Thursday, she asked me what I wanted for dinner. Then last week, she wanted to know if I could pick Matt up from practice. It's almost like she's forgotten where I am."
I take a bite of pancake and strawberry, give him a moment to continue.
"I asked Matt if she was acting strange and he said he hasn't noticed anything," he exhales, defeated and drained. "Then this morning, she wanted to know if Hannah was on birth control because she heard someone on the dance team got knocked up. When I told her Hannah and I broke up three years ago, she told me to stop being a smartass."
I set my fork down, worry and concern flooding my chest. "Do you think it's stress? From her job?"
Kyle spears a pancake with his fork. "I don't know. I haven't really spoken to my mom in a few years. We had...a difference of opinion."
I had gathered as much. "What happened?'
