Soft footsteps descend the stairs, prompting me to glance up and observe Ricky approaching us, her arms extending wearily as she yawns. Despite her drowsy demeanour, she is exceptionally gorgeous, causing my heart to practically skip a beat at the sheer sight of her.
“Mother, observe! We have prepared waffles!” Bray exclaims, descending from the chair and hastening to embrace his mother.
She raises an eyebrow in wonder while cradling her puppy and gently kissing its cheeks. The timer on the waffle iron sounds, prompting me to swiftly extract the hot waffle to prevent it from burning. Published by Jobnib.com; explore our site for additional complimentary novels.
I spread butter and syrup on the waffle and set it on a dish in front of Bray, who smiles triumphantly and pushes the plate towards his mother.
“Mother, sample our waffle,” he exclaims, dipping his finger into a pool of syrup and licking it clean.
A faint grin appears on Ricky’s lips as she hesitantly takes a bite, causing my heart to fall when she swallows with some difficulty and smacks her lips to eliminate the flavour from her tongue.
Regrettably, I have erred. I chastise myself as my knees begin to weaken under the weight of her silence.
“That is… That is a peculiar flavour,” she retches, seizing the plate and discarding the waffle in the garbage. “Which sugar did you utilise?” she enquires, her gentle smile remaining on her lips.
I indicate the white powder in a jar on the counter, and she inserts her finger to sample it. Her face contorts as she erupts in laughter, the sound elevating my spirits.
In what manner can a chuckle possess such beauty?
“Sample it,” she chuckles, nudging the jar in my direction.
I apprehensively sample the sugar and nearly gag on my own cough upon discovering that the jar contains salt instead. Ricky’s laughing is irresistible, prompting Bray and me to join in. I discard the salty batter while Ricky retrieves the authentic jug of sugar for our usage.
“Let us attempt this once more,” she jests, quantifying the appropriate amount of sugar and presenting it to me.
Our fingers make contact during the transaction, eliciting tingling sparks along my hand. A flush ascends Ricky’s cheeks as she withdraws her hand to arrange her hair behind her ear.
“K-Bray,” she clears her throat with a cough. “Assist me with the milk and butter.”
Bray joyfully approaches his mother, who places him on the chair to enable him to view over the counter.
Ricky meticulously directs Bray’s hand as they combine the wet ingredients, ensuring no mess is made on the counter.
My hands tremble as I combine the flour and baking powder, suddenly acutely aware of the possibility of making another mistake. The pervasive ideas of failure conflict in my mind, hindering my ability to concentrate.
“Do not forget the salt,” Jimmy jests, prompting me to dismiss him to the recesses of my thoughts.
While reaching for the jar of salt, I inadvertently topple my bowl of dry ingredients, causing a cloud of flour to disperse into the air. I gaze vacantly at Ricky and Bray, apprehensive to shift even slightly.
“Oh no, Jadi,” Bray exclaims, shattering the silence. “Oh no.” Time for tidying up!He vocalises.
He rises from his chair and hastens into the closet to retrieve a broom. Bray grapples with the elongated handle, encircling it with both arms while executing a sweeping motion with the broom. Regrettably, the well-meaning child merely disseminates the flour around the floor, creating a more substantial disorder.
“It is acceptable, Bray,” Ricky asserts, seizing the broom from him. “I will perform the sweeping.”
I conceal my shaking hands behind my back and remain in the corner, reluctant to commit further errors.
“It is acceptable, Jadi,” Bray states, grasping my hands. “Incidents occur.”
I compel a smile and glance at my companion, quite startled to find her directly in front of me.
“Are you alright?” Ricky enquires, her expression softening as she lifts her hand.
I recoil instinctively, prompting her to cease, her eyes reflecting sorrow.
“You have flour in your hair,” she murmurs, delicately probing my hair and tousling it, releasing another cloud of powder into the atmosphere.
I stare at her, my cheeks reddening in humiliation due to my own frailty. She rises on her toes and kisses my nose, leaning her head against my forehead.
She is not Father, Jimmy exhales. She is not him.
“You are acceptable to me,” she whispers, a warm sensation coursing up my arm as she hesitantly rests her hand over mine, drawing me across the counter. I nearly withdraw, apprehensive that my hands may repulse her, yet she maintains her grip. My hands cease to tremble under her calming touch, and my pounding heart ultimately stabilises.
