diet pretty fast. How about some protein and veggies, too?” I ask, raising an eyebrow.
He pops up off the floor and follows me back to the couch.
“What are some of your favorite meals at home?” I ask, pulling out the laptop.
“Meatloaf, pasta, beef stew, fish and fries,” he says without hesitation.
Crap. Magnus may need a chef.
Pasta, I could probably handle. The rest of that’s beyond me.
“Your mom cooks well,” I tell him.
“Most days.”
“What if Mom works late? Then what do you do?”
“Oh, did you mean you wanted me to pick frozen foods?”
I nod. “Well, no one here really has the skills to cook from scratch, so I was thinking of things you could make your—”
He pumps his arm in the air and brings it back down.
“Yes! I want mini pepperoni pizzas, frozen burritos, insta-chicken—”
“Whoa, whoa. Wait. Insta-chicken?” I ask.
“Like boneless wings that just get microwaved. Oh, get a big bottle of ranch,” he says.
Okay. So the kid likes his snacks.
“I have a better idea.” I hand him my phone. “You fill up the cart, and when you’re done, I’ll approve it, okay?”
He’s all too eager, grabbing the phone away. He sets to work filling up the shopping cart.
Twenty minutes later, he hands it back to me. “All set.”
I scan the long list of frozen junk food, hot chocolate, marshmallows, candy, and popcorn.
“One condition: you have to tell me some fruits and vegetables you like too.”
“Aw, I’ll eat any fruit. Vegetables, I only like carrots and cucumbers,” he says.
“That’s easy enough.” I add some basic supplies in case someone feels up to cooking, confirm the order, pay with the company card, and set up delivery. “You can have hot cocoa before bed tonight.”
“Cool.” He gives me the first real smile I’ve seen.
I study the boy. I need to try to break the ice for Magnus.
“So how are you doing with—everything?” I venture.
He shrugs. “All right, I guess.”
There’s a but in there somewhere, I think.
“But?”
He lets out a long, sad sigh.
“Will you be straight with me? Is my mom gonna be okay?” he asks, staring at his sneakers.
I hold in a breath before answering carefully. “I think so, but I honestly...I don’t know. I’m not a doctor. I’ll see if I can get more info, though.”
“You’re nice,” he says, his eyes beaming in the darkness.
I smile. “I try.”
Jordan releases a breath so hard his body slumps forward, palms resting on his knees. “It’s weird having a half brother. Or maybe the half brother part isn’t that crazy. It’s having a half brother I didn’t know about until Mom got attacked. It kind of freaks me out.” He looks around like he’s making sure we’re alone.
“Mag’s asleep,” I reassure him.
“I don’t like this place. Feels like a fancy hotel where I’ll break something without even trying. I want to go home,” he says in a cracked voice.
“Well, I don’t think that’s a possibility until your mom heals up. You’d be alone, and the state has rules—”
“Yeah, stupid ones. I’m fourteen. Pretty old.”
“Wait until you’re twenty-three and tell me how old it feels,” I say, leaning against the wall.
“Is that how old you are?”
I nod.
“Jeez. It’s not even a ten-year difference. You just get to drink and drive. Uh, hopefully not together.”
I laugh at the cute blush on his face.
“I know. But ten years ago, you were only four. That’s a big difference with life experience.”
“Maybe. So why has he stayed away all this time?” He meets my eyes, searching.
A question I can’t answer.
“I don’t know, Jordan. I don’t have a lot of details about what happened with your family. But the important thing is, he cares about you. Magnus Heron can be gruff, demanding, and kind of a Jerk Store special—”
The kid looks at me with his brows raised.
Yeah, I’m not making this smoother.
“But he’s not a bad guy!” I sputter. “Honestly. He’s surprised me many times with his kindness, and lots of people agree. He’s done amazing favors for people like Armstrong, his driver. Try to give him a chance, okay?”
Dang. I can hardly believe what I’m saying.
I’ve turned into Armstrong, defending Magnus against skeptics who think he’s the worst.
“Whatever. He sends me presents a couple of times a year,” Jordan says, turning so he can stare back at the wintry Chicago night.
“See? That’s nice of him.”
He shakes his head. “They’re lame gifts. Always. The last thing he sent was like these stupid journals and pens just because I won a contest in some dumb writing group my mom signed me up