Coop
It’s Sunday morning. I’m in the middle of the Rocky Mountains in a private cabin, pretending to be in a relationship with a coworker who can’t stand me. It’s been less than twenty-four hours, and I feel like my brain is scrambled. I drank something called a Hanky Spanky that I’m pretty sure branded my GI tract, and I have faint memories of breaking someone’s nose. That part has to be a dream. I don’t hit people. My pop always taught me to fight smarter than that. Still, it feels like I bruised my knuckles somehow. I guess that’s what gave me the dreams.
In any case, I’m having a hard time shaking the soup out of my noggin. And I can’t blame all of it on the Hanky Spanky. Dark brown curls, hazel eyes, and a soft smile have done more damage than whatever was in that drink. Which is worse than anything. I’m here to keep my job, protect my nephew, and figure out where this all goes from here. I don’t have the energy, time, or space in my life for another complication, no matter how much the sparks in her eyes short circuit my central nervous system.
When I finally pull myself out of the shower and into some jeans and a cable knit sweater, my head starts to clear. As if the alcohol and that blue dress weren’t confusing enough, for some inexplicable reason Seamus gave me wakeup calls starting at four this morning, and every thirty minutes after. Every time I asked him to stop, he laughed and yelled something in what I guess might’ve been Irish. He finally stopped at seven, which is when I fell back asleep. Now I’ve missed breakfast and Owen and Tilda appear to be long gone. I give my hair a quick comb and rush down the stairs to find them. I need to make sure Owen doesn’t decide to “adopt” more cats, and I need to make sure Tilda doesn’t ink that deal and get me fired.
I’m feeling pretty clear and level headed right up until I hear Owen cry out. Adrenaline shoots through me and I race to the source of the sound. When I fling the door open, a wall of delicious smells and bizarre spectacles hits me. I decide maybe I never actually woke up after all.
I don’t know what the fear ricocheting through me expected, but it wasn’t this. They’re in the kitchen, a huge, commercial space with every imaginable appliance. Owen sits on the island listening raptly, Toast cradled in his lap. Owen’s eyes are wide, and his face seems tight with fear, but he’s grinning at the same time. Across from him, Tilda pokes her head above a book. She’s covered in flour and gesturing with every bit she reads. It appears to be some kind of corny ghost story, but with every jump scare and spook in the story, she’s adding sound effects using utensils in the kitchen. Ms. Danksbury claps and cheers her on, while Seamus appears to be napping in an industrial-sized kitchen sink.
"What is this?" I demand, bewildered.
Owen shushes me. “Tilda’s reading me a scary story! It’s getting to the good part…”
But instead of reading on, Tilda closes the book, brushes her loose hair back from her face, and assumes a bored expression under all that flour. “We’ll just save that for later, okay, bud?”
I narrow my eyes. I’m pretty sure I don’t deserve this sudden chill. After all, I gave her the suite while I slept on the ground under a basketball hoop. I’m pretty sure Owen’s kitten didn’t chew on her ears last night. She’s the one down here trying to sweep the deal out from under me by showing Danksbury how fabulous she is with my nephew. Which also really irks me for some reason. “By all means, don’t let me interrupt. Since no one woke me for breakfast, I’ll just be over here finding something for myself. With your permission, Ms. Danksbury, of course.”
She waves and heads for the door. “Mi kitchen es tu kitchen. If you’ll excuse me, darlings, this has been magnificent fun, but I must make a few phone calls. Those cookies are almost done.”
I’m not even hungry, and this definitely isn’t how I’d normally handle my frustration. People don’t respond well to moodiness, pettiness, and immaturity. I know better than this, but it’s just that spending twenty-four hours straight with Tilda is affecting me somehow, and finding them here, all cozy without me, makes me want to act like a brat for some reason. Rather than examine that at all, I bury my head in the fridge and pretend to look for breakfast. Owen’s face appears in the fridge with me. “Uncle Coop, why doesn’t Miss Tilda like you?”
His bright blue eyes blink innocently, but I swear I feel like the kid just sucker punched me. I straighten slowly and turn, suddenly really wanting the answer to that question myself. “Guess we better let her answer that one, huh?”
Tilda doesn’t answer at first. Instead, she starts cleaning off her face with a tea towel using prissy little swipes. “Special effects, you see. I was the ghost. Gotta get in character.”
When I don’t react, she clears her throat. “Owen, it’s not that I have anything against your uncle per se. He’s never done anything to me. I just have known men like him.”
I don’t like how she stressed the word “me.” It felt like she was implying I definitely did something to someone else. And I mean, hell. I probably did, but can’t we just say that person’s name outright? “Define men like me.”
She throws the towel over her shoulder and crosses her arms. A dozen expressions cross her face in a matter of seconds until her features settle into calm resolve. “His name was Nikolas, but I call him Mistakolas. He was charming. Romantic. So very understanding. He really saw me for who I was, and I loved that feeling. Turns out he was just a manipulative narcissist who was skilled at reading people’s fears and playing off them to get whatever he could. I was nothing but an opportunity to him, so I swore to never let that happen again.”
A timer on the stove beeps, so she shrugs, turns, and uses oven mitts to pull trays of cookies from the ovens.
Owen and I both stand there not saying a word. I’m not sure how much or on what level he’s able to process all that. Heck, I’m not even sure I can. All I know is fresh anger is crawling through me, and the sudden urge to track down some guy named Nikolas seems pretty overwhelming.
Owen scoops up Toast and sneaks a cookie. “Well, he sucks, but my uncle’s not a Coopolas. Mispalous? He’s not gross.”
As he runs past me, I manage to get a fist bump. “Thanks for that, man.”
Once he’s out of the room, Tilda faces me. “Your turn. What’s up with Owen?”
I lean my forearms on the island and brush at the flour with the side of my pinky. “His mom, my sister, died three months ago. Heart disease. We never even saw it coming. When he was born I promised to take care of him should anything happen. You never really think it will.”
Her eyes soften. “And his dad?”
I brush a bit harder at the flour. “Long gone. It’s me and him now, and I’ve got no idea what I’m doing, but I’m pretty sure I’m screwing it up.”
She’s silent for a solid minute, then her head drifts to a tilt. “That’s why you’re late. Why you leave early. Why you’ve been so tired at work.”
I straighten up and dust the flour off my sleeve. “We’ll get it figured out.”
I want to say more. I want to hold onto this temporary truce. Most of all, I very much want to brush some of that flour off her cheek, but before I can move, Seamus snorts, yells, and starts struggling to free himself from the sink. “You’ll not take me yet, ye slimy kraken!”
His shouts bring the other curious couples to the kitchen, who then exclaim over the flour and cookies. Ms. Danksbury announces that in a few hours we should all change into warm layers, because adventure awaits. Normally I’d be curious about that, but right now all I care about is Tilda.
She busies herself with cleaning up the kitchen, and just like that, our moment is gone.