Read Online Where You'll Find Me by Erin Fletcher - Free Book Online Page A

thing I do. On school days, I run so late that I’m lucky if I remember to grab a banana or a granola bar on my way out the door. On weekends, I’m not awake early enough for breakfast, or even lunch. “Sure.” I click off the TV and follow Nate out of my bedroom.
    “Nice house,” he says, peeking into Heather’s room before following me down the stairs.
    “That’s the room with the giant walk-in closet. Of course, that’s where Heather ended up.”
    “Oh, you poor, deprived child,” Nate teases as we turn past the den.
    “Right? I’m scarred for life.” In the kitchen, I open the cupboard, checking out our breakfast selections. “Cheerios. Oatmeal. Granola bars. Bread.” I close the cupboard and nod toward the fruit bowl on the counter. “Apples. Bananas. Oranges.” Lastly, I open the fridge. “Yogurt, but it’s the sugar-free, organic crap that tastes like sour cream. Eggs. Juice. Milk.” When I closed the fridge, Nate is leaning against the counter.
    “Do you like eggs?” he asks.
    I shrug. “Yeah. I’m not good at cooking them, though. Unless you count hard-boiling them.”
    “I don’t. But lucky for you, I’m a halfway decent cook. How do you like your eggs? Scrambled? Over-easy? In an omelet? Poached?”
    Instead of answering, I tip my head to one side. The homeless guy who clearly knows how to throw a punch also knows how to cook?
    “Omelets are my specialty, just so you know.” He nudges past me and opens the fridge. “Do you have cheese?”
    Opening one of the drawers, I ask, “Cheddar, mozzarella, or Swiss?”
    Nate grins the crooked-tooth grin. “Omelets it is.”
    …
    Nate is a natural in the kitchen. He breaks eggs with skill and precision. He chops a few slices of ham into evenly sized pieces and mixes them into the eggs along with cheddar cheese. The kitchen smells amazing. I set the table, brew coffee, and pour us each a glass of orange juice. When I avoid burning the toast, I’m proud of my success.
    While he cooks and then in between bites, Nate asks about my family. I tell him about my parents and their jobs, about Heather, about Rosalinda and Misty. Nothing too deep. Just the basics. “Poetry sounded like a good class when I signed up for it,” I say when he asks about my second semester class schedule. “I mean, I’d rather read a one-page poem than a three hundred-page novel any day. But then there’s all this imagery and symbolism and stuff I just don’t get. Sometimes I swear my teacher and I read completely different poems. It’s ridiculous.”
    Nate sits at our kitchen table like he belongs there. His plate and glass are empty. He’s leaning back in his chair, arms folded casually, relaxed look on his face. “That’ll teach you to take the easy way out, right?”
    “Right,” I agree. As I down my last sip of juice, I realize how dry my throat is and how much talking I’ve been doing. When I set my glass down, I run my finger along the rim. Nate doesn’t jump to fill the silence with another question this time, so I ask one of my own. “What about your family?”
    He hesitates, then stands and picks up his plate, glass, and silverware. I follow suit and think he won’t answer, but then he says, “There’s not much to tell.”
    Our dishes clink as I set mine on top of his near the sink. “Most people without much to tell don’t live in other peoples’ garages.”
    Nate hesitates. “Maybe.”
    “You’ve gotta tell me something,” I say, as I locate a sponge and dish soap under the sink. “I told you a lot. It’s only fair.”
    As I fill the sink with warm, sudsy water, he brings the pan and spatula over from the stove. I catch the scent of something soft and pretty. At first I think it’s the dish soap, but then I remember it’s Nate’s skin washed with my cucumber melon soap. Yep. Still sexy. I wash a plate and hand it to him to dry with the blue and white checkered towel from the oven door. Still, Nate says nothing. “Come on,” I say,