Chapter 11 #2
Bon appétit, Ms. Bougie.
Isis muttered something under her breath before turning around and marching off toward the kitchen, likely regretting her “I can cook” announcement.
This should be fun. Then again, she might surprise all of us—mainly me. Hell, she might just be the next Tabitha Brown. Time will tell.
Me, Bryce, and Adrian had all found our comfort zones on the couch, like we were in three different realities.
I was curled up with my Kindle, knee-deep in a twisty mystery thriller that had my nerves rattled.
Bryce had the TV on full-blast, hollering at a football game like he was on payroll, clapping and shouting directions like they could hear him through the screen.
And Adrian? Of course, he was glued to his phone, thumbs flying like he was solving world problems… probably texting a woman.
I didn’t really care.
I just need ten minutes to myself.
Ten minutes without Isis’s high-pitched humming or her desperate thirst that smelled like desperation and vanilla lip gloss.
Ten minutes without Bryce’s unreadable expressions, heavy and unresolved, settling in my chest like confessions I was too scared to interpret.
And ten minutes without Adrian’s try-hard jokes, his loud presence, or him asking me for some pussy every hour on the hour, acting as if my coochie operated on a happy-hour schedule.
A moment passed, then I felt the cushion beside me dip.
I didn’t have to look up to see who it was; Adrian’s loud ass cologne gave him away every time.
He sat beside me, not too close, but just close enough to interrupt my peace. Then leaned in a little, voice low and slightly hesitant. “You still mad at me?”
I ignored him and just scrolled to the next page.
“Look, Chess, I was trippin’ earlier. The bear… the attitude… I let my ego talk. I was wrong.”
From the other side of the room, Bryce’s loud commentary suddenly went quiet. I glanced up for half a second and, sure enough, he was staring right at us, ear hustling, not even trying to hide it, like the entertainment was us, and not the TV.
I swallowed whatever extra words were forming on my tongue and settled on, “It’s water under the bridge, Adrian.”
That’s all I said… even though I wanted to say more. I wanted to remind him how childish he acted, how selfish he sounded, and how I was still trying to piece together what part of the weekend wasn’t a red flag, but with Bryce’s eyes on me like heat lamps, I kept it cute.
Adrian nodded slowly. “I’ll take that. But what about us? I mean, can we—”
“Adrian,” I cut him off, calmly, still not looking at him, “you’re interfering with my reading time.”
He gave a sheepish chuckle. “Got it. I take that as a sign you don’t wanna be bothered.”
“Ding, ding, ding, ding, ding,” I muttered under my breath.
Adrian stood up and stretched. “Aight. I’ll leave you alone… for now. But we still gotta talk.”
In my mind, I replied plainly:
Nigga, the only thing we gotta talk about is how you gon’ keep your distance, mind your business, and find another couch to sit on that ain’t mine until checkout.
But again… Bryce was still watching. So I just flipped another page, and pretended the plot twist on my Kindle was the only drama I was invested in.
Ten minutes later…
CLANG!
BANG!
CRASH!
It sounded as though a cooking competition had spiraled out of control, with Isis in the kitchen yelling at ingredients that refused to cooperate.
Adrian raised an eyebrow, listening to the chaos unfold. “Is she in there cooking or fighting demons?” he questioned, his tone half-amused, half-concerned.
I didn’t even bother responding. I had already sunk back into my Kindle, attempting to escape the impending disaster brewing just beyond the living room.
Not even two minutes passed before the familiar, acrid smell invaded my nostrils. It was a sensory assault—a mixture of burnt batter, over-sizzled bacon, and the unmistakable scent of charred hope.
And did I mention the over-sizzled bacon? Yeah, I did.
Bryce sniffed the air. “The fuck?” he muttered, looking like he’d just caught a whiff of something far worse than breakfast.
And then it happened.
BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!
The smoke alarm blared to life, lighting up the cabin with an alarming urgency. In an instant, we all jumped up, hearts racing, as if the living room had been issued a bomb threat.
Please let this fire extinguisher still work. That was the only fleeting prayer I could muster as we scrambled to get to the kitchen.
Once we made it, all of us halted in astonishment, mesmerized by the scene before us. The kitchen resembled a battlefield of scorched cookware and thick, swirling smoke clouds. The chaos was beyond comprehension.
Adrian shook his head, with disappointment etched across his features. “Well… breakfast is definitely canceled,” he announced, his tone dry as a desert.
The scene? Armageddon… in cast iron.
There was pancake batter everywhere—caked on the stove, dripping off the counter, and splattered across the curtains in what could only be described as a grotesque art installation.
The floor had turned into a full hazard zone, grease pooling so thick it looked professionally choreographed, like somebody had been figure skating in Pam.
The eggs sat in the skillet appearing utterly defeated, scrambled into pure depression, while the cheese huddled on one side, as if it had thrown in the towel mid-melt.
And the poor bacon? Jesus. It looked like it died, got resurrected out of spite, and then immediately chose death again.
Isis stood at the center of the chaos, fanning the air with a wooden cutting board, her cheeks flushed red with embarrassment, though she was desperately trying to maintain an air of nonchalance.
I flung open the kitchen door to let the smoke escape—the fresh air a welcome relief. Meanwhile, Bryce sprinted to the fire alarm, frantically waving a dishtowel like he was swatting away a swarm of angry bees.
“Isis... what the hell?!” he yelled.
Adrian opened the toaster and held up two blackened, unidentifiable rectangles.
“Y’all... she cremated the toast.” He held one up like it was a tarot card. “This is a sign from the ancestors that we chose the wrong damn cook.”
Isis whipped her head around, still fanning. “I had to multitask, okay?! Y’all act like I burned the cabin down!”
Adrian coughed. “Shawty, the walls got asthma now.”
Isis stood there with flour dusted across her eyelashes like snowy mascara, a whole chunk of pancake mix lodged in her hair as an unapproved leave-in conditioner, and her eyes all watery. But her pride? Chile… it stood ten toes down and refused to let a single tear fall.
I bit the inside of my cheek so I wouldn’t laugh. “If you can’t cook, sis, you could’ve just said that. No hard feelings. We all would’ve settled on cereal.”
Bryce looked around at the disaster, scratching his head in anger and disbelief. “Let’s get this shit cleaned up.”
Then he looked at Isis, long and hard, like she was a health violation in human form.
“And you… just go clean yo’self up. I’m afraid if you touch anything else, the CDC gone have to clear this bitch before we can eat.”
“Yeah, shawty, go wash off whatever you was trying to prove… and maybe light a candle while you’re at it, ‘cause the only thing you cooked up this morning was chaos and disappointment,” Adrian said, putting his two cents in.
Isis let out a frustrated stomp and huffed toward the hallway, mumbling under her breath, “This is exactly why when I get rich, I’m hiring a private chef! Y’all gon’ be the broke ones begging for brunch invites!”
I watched her walk off, then turned to Bryce and muttered, “And that’s the girl you decided to bring here?”
Without missing a beat, he shot back, “And that’s the nigga you decided to bring?
” He nodded toward Adrian, who was standing there, head tilted, still staring at the toast like it had just called him broke.
“One who brought a 3-inch blade for a probably almost 400-pound bear, like he was gon’ whisper, ‘Back up lil’ bro’, and it was just gon’ walk away.
That nigga probably mentally made an emergency exit plan that didn’t include you. ”
Touché.
I forgot how petty Bryce could be when he wanted to.
We spent the next twenty minutes cleaning up.
The tension in the cabin was thicker than the batter still splattered across the counter.
Adrian poured himself a sad bowl of cereal like his morning had just filed for divorce.
Bryce made a quick and easy turkey and cheese sandwich.
And me? I bit into an apple and sipped some water like the classy, non-traumatized queen that I was.
I could’ve cooked, but after all that cleaning, my spirit was too tired.
Hell, my ancestors were probably still fanning smoke out of their wings.
“An hour later: Chili Chance Redemption.”
An hour later, the cabin had finally aired out, and the mood thawed a little.
Isis had retreated into self-reflection—or shame.
She was curled up on the couch, wrapped in a throw blanket, clutching a mug of water, and fake sipping like she wasn’t just the villain in that morning’s culinary crime scene.
Meanwhile, the rest of us had scattered to do our own thing.