Pancakes.
Luther's awful pancakes.
But why is he cooking? Is it my birthday? But why would Luther cook? He hates cooking?
How is he even up before me? He is such a sleepy head.
Does he have classes in the morning?
But—
We are out of college.
Why am I smelling Luther's pancakes?
Just what happened to me?
I brought Luther to the first place I ever bought.
The walls were still the same color, the furniture just as bad as I remembered.
He laughed when he saw it.
Said it looked awful.
He wasn't wrong.
It was bare, expensive, thrown together like I had no idea what I was doing.
Then the plan— the lie…
I told him the lie.
That I killed his father.
The words came out flat.
I didn't explain.
I didn't give him a reason or a story to hold on to. I just let it sit there between us. He stared at me, waiting for me to take it back, to tell him it wasn't true.
I didn't.
It was important for me to not believe me. To trust me even if he has no foundation for that trust.
