Chapter 4: Dangerous Breakfast
The kitchen smelled of bleach and protein powder. Mildred scrubbed at a non-existent spot on the counter, the coarse sponge scraping against the granite in a rhythm that matched the frantic beat of her heart. The little plastic bottle felt like a lead weight in the pocket of her silk robe, its presence a cold, constant accusation.
She heard his bare feet on the hardwood floor before she saw him. Sid moved through her house with a new, unsettling ownership, his body taking up space in a way that was both familiar and utterly foreign.
“Morning,” he said, his voice still rough with sleep.
Mildred jumped, the sponge skittering into the sink. “You’re up early.”
He shrugged, a fluid roll of his shoulders beneath a thin cotton t-shirt. He went to the blender, his movements efficient and sure. She watched his back, the way his muscles shifted as he scooped the powder, added the almond milk. The memory of last night’s rhythmic thumping was a live wire in her mind, tangled with the pressure of Angela’s shoe and the feel of the pill bottle in her palm.
Give him one of these.
He turned, leaning against the counter as the blender roared to life, a vortex of brownish-green liquid. He took a long drink straight from the carafe, his throat working. A drop escaped the corner of his mouth and traced a path down his neck. Her eyes followed it.
“You okay, Mom? You’re staring.” He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, a simple, animal gesture. His eyes, the same warm hazel as her own, held a glint of something she couldn’t name. Not quite suspicion. Amusement.
“I’m fine,” she said too quickly, turning back to the spotless counter. “Just… thinking.”
The blender shut off, leaving a sudden, ringing silence. She could feel him looking at her.
“You know,” he said, his tone casual, conversational, “if you’re that interested, you could always join me.”
Mildred froze. “Join you for what?”
“A workout. You’re always tense. It’d be good for you. I could show you a few things.” He flexed his bicep absently, not as a boast, but as a mechanic might point to a tool. The cotton of his sleeve strained. She remembered the fantasy, her hand dipping, the imagined feel of control. Grabbing and squeezing. Her own fingers, which had been gripping the counter, curled inward.
Her mouth was dry. “I don’t think that’s a good idea, Sid.”
“Why not?” He pushed off the counter and took a step closer. The scent of him—sleep, clean cotton, and the faint, sweet smell of the shake—filled the space between them. “It’s just exercise. I’ve got some old shorts and a t-shirt you could borrow. It’s not like I haven’t seen you in less.”
The words hung in the air, simple and devastating. He was referring to beaches, to backyard pools from a decade ago, a lifetime ago. But in the context of this new, charged silence, they meant something else entirely. They stripped away the pretense, pointing directly to the body beneath the silk, the one that had trembled and arched alone in the dark while listening to his.
It’s just biology, Angela’s voice whispered in her memory.
Her gaze dropped from his face to the carafe in his hand. The thick, opaque liquid swirled. It would be so easy. The pill was right there in her pocket. A little white secret dissolved into the protein and kale. A quick, efficient solution to the problem of his overwhelming presence. To the problem of her own.
“I…” she began, but her voice failed her.
He misinterpreted her hesitation. A slow, easy smile spread across his face. “Come on. It’ll be fun. I’ll go easy on you.” He reached out and gave her shoulder a playful squeeze. His hand was warm, strong. The contact was a jolt, a spark that traveled straight down her spine. It was the first time he’d touched her since he’d moved back, and it felt nothing like a son’s touch.
He held the carafe out to her. “Here. For energy. You look like you need it.”
It was an offering. A challenge. The blender’s contents sloshed, viscous and green. Her eyes flickered from his confident, smiling face to the drink, then back again. The weight in her pocket seemed to grow heavier, pulsing with a dark promise of belonging, of shared secrets, of an end to the lonely, shameful friction.
Her hand trembled as she reached out, her fingers brushing against his as she took the cold, heavy carafe.
Her hand trembled as she reached out, her fingers brushing against his as she took the cold, heavy carafe. The contact was a static shock that traveled up her arm. She lifted it to her lips, the smell of synthetic vanilla and something vaguely green filling her nostrils.
She took a sip. The thick, chalky liquid coated her tongue. “Okay,” she heard herself say, the word muffled by the carafe. She lowered it, wiping her mouth. “I’ll do it.”
A slow, triumphant smile spread across his face. “Yeah? Awesome.” He took the carafe back from her, his fingers lingering a moment too long. “Go change. I’ll meet you in the garage in five. Don’t chicken out.”
She turned and walked out of the kitchen, her legs moving on autopilot. Up the stairs, each step felt like a march toward a verdict. In her bedroom, she stared at her reflection in the full-length mirror, the woman in the jade silk dress now looking like a stranger preparing for a ritual.
She believed this would be proof. A controlled experiment under the harsh fluorescent lights of the garage. If she felt nothing looking at him, sweating beside him, then she was vindicated. Her mind was just a cluttered attic of anxieties, and Angela’s circle was a pit of vipers she could safely escape.
But if she felt something… the thought was a cold stone dropping in her gut. If that unwelcome heat stirred again, then the little white pill in her jewelry box was the answer. It would get it over with. It would sever the knot of tension once and for all, a surgical strike against this… biology.
She pulled on an old pair of yoga pants and a loose t-shirt, the cotton feeling abrasive against her skin still humming from the memory of silk. The outfit felt like a disguise, a flimsy armor. She paused by her jewelry box, her hand hovering over the small, hidden compartment.
She didn't open it. Not yet. Proof first.
The garage was a dungeon of concrete and stored memories, the air thick with the smell of gasoline and dust. Sid had rolled the old sedan out onto the driveway, creating a cramped arena. He was already stretching, his back to her, the fabric of his t-shirt stretching taut across his shoulders.
“Took you long enough,” he said without turning around. “I thought you’d bailed.”
“I said I’d come.” Her voice sounded thin in the vast, echoey space.
He turned, and his eyes did a quick, assessing sweep of her body. It wasn't a son's look. It was the same evaluating glance he’d probably given his art school models, or the girls he brought home. “Okay. We’ll start simple. Just mirror my movements.”
He dropped into a squat, his form perfect, his thighs parallel to the floor. She followed, her knees protesting. She was acutely aware of her own body, the softness of her stomach, the way her breathing shallowed. He moved through a series of poses, a fluid dance of strength and control. A plank. Push-ups.
She tried to keep up, her arms shaking. Her gaze kept snagging on the corded muscles in his forearms, the sweat dampening the hair at the nape of his neck. Each demonstrated movement was a display of pure, unthinking physicality.
“Your form’s off,” he said, coming up behind her as she struggled in a plank. He knelt beside her. “Your back is sagging. Here.”
His hands landed on her. One pressed flat against the small of her back, the other on her abdomen, just below her navel. His touch was clinical, instructional, but it burned through the thin cotton. “Engage your core. Like this.”
He applied pressure, his fingers splayed. She gasped, her entire body jolting at the contact. It was nothing like the phantom touch in her dark bedroom. This was real, warm, and overwhelming. The memory of Angela’s foot under the table was a whisper, but this was a shout.
A flush spread from her chest up her neck. She could feel the heat pooling low in her belly, a treacherous, unmistakable answer to the experiment. Proof. The wrong kind.
She collapsed out of the plank, rolling onto her side on the cold concrete, her chest heaving. “I… I can’t.”
He looked down at her, his expression unreadable. A bead of sweat traced a path from his temple down his jawline. He wasn’t even breathing hard. “You did okay for a first try,” he said, his voice low. He offered a hand to help her up.
She stared at his outstretched hand, at the capable, confident fingers that had just been pressed against her skin. The verdict was in. She had felt everything. The pill, then. To get it over with.
She took his hand and let him pull her to her feet. His grip was firm, lasting a second longer than necessary. “Thanks,” she mumbled, pulling her hand away as if burned.
She turned and walked quickly back toward the house, leaving him in the garage. She didn't look back. Her mind was no longer on the workout or the shame. It was on the small, hidden compartment in her bedroom, and the definitive, chemical end it promised.
The shower water was scalding. It needled her skin, turning it pink, but couldn’t wash away the phantom pressure of his hands. She scrubbed with a rough loofah, trying to erase the memory of his touch on her lower back, her abdomen. The steam filled the room, thick and suffocating, but her mind was clear, focused on a single, terrible point.
Downstairs, she heard the front door slam. “Mom? Why is the car sitting in the driveway dripping oil?” Destiny’s voice cut through the hum of the water.
Mildred turned off the shower, her heart lurching. Wrapping herself in a towel, she padded into the hallway. “Sid was using the garage. For a workout.” Her voice sounded strained.
Destiny stood at the bottom of the stairs, her long hair perfectly smooth, her expression sharp. She looked from her mother’s flushed, damp face to the open garage door. “Right. A workout.” Her tone was flat, disbelieving. “Well, I’m heading to Sarah’s. We’re pulling an all-nighter on this coding project. Don’t wait up.”
She shouldered her laptop bag and turned to leave, a clear dismissal. The house, suddenly, felt emptier. The silence rang with possibility.
Mildred stood there, dripping onto the hardwood, the towel clutched to her chest. Destiny would be gone. All night. The facts arranged themselves in her mind with a dreadful, inevitable logic. The garage, the hands, the pill. It was an opening. A window.
She dressed slowly, her fingers fumbling with the buttons on her blouse. She went to her jewelry box, her movements deliberate. The small, unlabeled bottle was cool in her hand. She shook one tiny white tablet into her palm. It looked so innocent.
Downstairs, Sid was at the kitchen table, sketching in a large pad. The muscles in his forearm flexed with each stroke of the charcoal. He didn’t look up. “Hey.”
“Destiny’s gone for the night.” The words hung in the air. She forced a casual tone, leaning against the counter. “How about protein shakes for dinner?” She held her breath.
He finally glanced up, a slow, easy smile spreading across his face. “Yeah? Awesome. I’m starving. I can make my killer peanut butter blast.” He stretched, his t-shirt riding up to reveal a strip of taut, tan stomach. “Extra scoop for me, though. Gotta hit my macros.”
“Extra scoop,” Mildred repeated, her fingers closing tightly around the pill in her palm. “Sounds perfect.”
“Sounds perfect.” Her voice was a stranger’s, light and airy as she turned toward the blender. Sid’s sketchpad rustled behind her, the sound of charcoal scraping paper a counterpoint to the frantic thrumming in her ears. She pulled the protein canister from the cabinet, her hands moving on autopilot while her mind screamed.
The blender carafe was still cool from his last use. She poured the milk, the white liquid sloshing, then scooped the powder, the fine dust blooming into the air. Her left hand, curled into a fist at her side, was damp. She could feel the tiny pill dissolving slightly in her palm’s sweat. This was the moment. The point of no return Betty had so casually handed to her.
His killer peanut butter blast required two heaping tablespoons from the jar. She dug the scoop in, the thick paste clinging to the metal. As she scraped it into the blender, she unclenched her left hand. The little white tablet was a stark beacon against her skin. It’s just biology, Angela’s voice purred in her memory, a serpentine whisper. Her fingers trembled.
With a motion so swift it was barely a flick, she dropped the pill into the thick, brownish mixture. It landed with a silent plop and began to sink immediately, vanishing into the concoction as if it had never been. A cold certainty washed over her. There was no going back now.
She screwed the lid on the blender, the plastic threads grating in the quiet kitchen. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a wild bird trapped in a cage of silk and bone. She pressed the button. The machine roared to life, a violent vortex of noise and motion that perfectly mirrored the chaos inside her. She watched the mixture churn, the pill now completely, irrevocably dissolved.
“Hope you’re hungry,” she said, turning to face him. Her smile felt brittle, a cracked glaze over a roiling pit. He looked up from his drawing, his hazel eyes crinkling at the corners. He was so young, so trusting in this moment, completely unaware of the chemical betrayal swirling in the glass he was about to drink from.
“Starving,” he said, pushing his chair back. He stretched his arms over his head, the hem of his t-shirt riding up again to reveal that strip of taut skin. The gesture was no longer just a display of casual strength; it was a target. Her gaze fixed on it, her mouth going dry. The blender finished its cycle, the sudden silence it left behind was deafening, filled only by the sound of her own blood pounding in her ears.
He walked toward the counter, his movements loose and easy. He picked up the carafe, his fingers curling around the handle where hers had just been. “Looks good,” he said, giving it a little swirl. The thick liquid clung to the sides. He raised it to his lips.
Mildred’s breath caught. Every muscle in her body went rigid. She watched the column of his throat work as he took a long, deep swallow. He drank half of it in one go, then lowered the carafe with a satisfied sigh. “Hit the spot.”
A droplet clung to his lower lip. He licked it away. The deed was done. The chemical was inside him now, a secret passenger in his bloodstream. There was nothing to do now but wait, and the waiting felt like standing on the edge of a cliff, wondering when the fall would begin.