Read Online Future Perfect by Jen Larsen - Free Book Online Page B

against his chest and scratches the back of her neck while she squirms.
    â€œI’m the one who washes the dishes,” I say, pulling out the stool next to him and hopping up. I reach for a slice of bacon but Mateo slaps my hand away.
    â€œIt’s my birthday!” I say.
    â€œMatthew,” my grandmother says. “You are not twelve years old.”
    â€œIt’s still my bacon,” he says. Annabelle Lee sighs and collapses against his shoulder, quiet now.
    â€œSo share your bacon,” I say.
    Lucas grabs the plate from behind Mateo’s other shoulder and walks around to the other side of the island.
    â€œDick!” Mateo says.
    â€œI want bacon,” I grumble. I can ignore my queasy stomach for bacon.
    â€œMaking more right this second,” my father says. He steps back to peer into the oven window. “Almost ready. All of it yours.”
    â€œIs that my birthday gift?” I ask.
    â€œI thought that was just a Tuesday,” Mateo says, and nudges me in the side, his elbow sharp and pointy.
    â€œNo, on Tuesday I eat an entire cow,” I say.
    â€œAw, don’t look like that,” he says. “You know I’m kidding.”
    My grandmother sets down her mug and pushes it toward Mateo. “Make yourself useful, Matthew,” she says to my brother. He hops up and gives her a big smacking kiss on the cheek. He grabs her mug and wanders over to the coffee machine, Annabelle Lee still draped over his shoulder.
    Lucas pushes the plate across the island to me. “Knock yourself out,” he says.
    â€œThank you,” I say, and take an extra-crispy piece.
    â€œI’ll just eat the fresh batch,” he says.
    â€œWhy are you here?” I ask him. “Do you have to be here?”
    â€œIt’s your last birthday at home,” he says, with his hand in his chin. “How do you feel? Do you feel terrified about your future and all the stupid choices you’ve made and all the mistakes you’re about to make?”
    â€œI could come home for my birthday next year,” I say. I take another piece of bacon.
    â€œOnce you leave you’re not coming back,” Mateo says,hopping back on his stool and kicking mine in a steady beat.
    â€œWhy not? You come back all the time. It’s like you’ve never left. It’s like we’re never going to get rid of you,” I say.
    â€œYeah, but we’re like ten minutes away.” He leans over and drops Annabelle gently on the floor. She pads off around the island with Toby in fascinated pursuit. Soto is lying at my feet with her chin on her paws, looking off into the distance.
    â€œLike five hours away,” Lucas says.
    â€œFourteen hours and eight minutes,” Grandmother says. “By car.”
    â€œWho’s counting?” my father says. He was the one who drove on that trip and I think he has blocked it all out, the fights over the radio and my grandmother’s giant paper map and her acid anger about speed limits and roadside diners and me lying in the backseat with my ear buds cranked up so loud even the open windows couldn’t drown out the bass.
    â€œOkay, an hour by plane, though,” Mateo says.
    â€œIt’s only eight hours for me,” I say, as my father slides a pancake onto my plate. It is lumpy and pale on one side, black on the other.
    â€œFirst one for the birthday girl,” he says. “As is tradition.”
    â€œThank you,” I say. I pick it up and drop it on the floor, as is tradition. Soto snatches it before it lands. “Good girl,” I say.
    My father makes a humph noise at me and slides the next one onto my plate.
    â€œReally?” I say. “Did you cook this?” I poke at it, and it oozes. “Are you eating these? You are going to make yourself sick.”
    â€œReally, Charles,” my grandmother says. She slides gracefully off her stool and circles around to the stove. My father backs off as