#bakermatriarch

      Lucas drops the bag of skittles with a huff, throwing the bag back down into the display while his Momma isn't lookin'. "I ain't even touched em' yet!" The man grumbles, his hands quickly stuffed in the pockets of his hoodie. She don't get him shit no more. He knows it's probably because the old man keeps tellin' her not to spoil him.... that he needs to move the fuck out and get a damn job or whatever the hell else the old bastard says. Fuck him.

"You sure do ask a lot of questions, young lady." She remarks with a smile. She fits right in with the Baker kids, too smart for their own good. Or, at least she would, if either of them were at the dinner table with her.

Lucas has an excuse, outside with the girl's father. Despite Marguerite's insistence that they could take a look at Paul's broken down car after dinner, he just couldn't resist getting his hands dirty as quickly as possible. He'd argued that it would be dark after dinner, but, in her opinion, it would be too late for them to go anywhere by the time they were finished with it, anyway. Best to let them stay the night and fix things up in the morning.

Knife slices through meatloaf, only to be plopped unceremoniously onto Alice's plate. "You're better off asking Zoe. She's the one with the stories."

         alice’s  nose  crinkles  slightly  at  the  sight  of  food  on  her  plate,   though  it  was  no  fault  of  her  own.   the  meal  looks  and  smells  divine,   and  even  though  she  has  never  been  much  of  a  carnivore,   alice  wishes  she  could  properly  enjoy  it.   however,   pains  had  plagued  her  stomach  throughout  their  trip;   for  a  while  she’d  been  fine,   but  it  was  probably  the  greasy  gas  station  fare  which  eventually  affected  her  appetite  for  the  worse.   maybe  that  was  just  one  of  the  many  downsides  of  having  delicate  sensibilities.   she  still  picks  up  her  fork  and  knife  to  be  courteous:   she’s  too  used  to  paul  watching  her  merely  push  her  food  around  to  know  she’d  be  fooled.

          the  girl  looks  up  meekly  towards  her  smiling  hostess,   wondering  if  she  can  stall  a  little  longer.   or  maybe  it  was  better  manners  to  wait  in  the  first  place?   she  still  isn’t  really  sure,   and  her  hesitation  is  plain  to  see  on  her  bewildered  features.   maybe  she  thinks  of  her  as  being  nosy,   or  annoying  for  all  her  silly  questions   —   alice  wants  to  defensively  remark  that  she’d  once  perused  a  book  of  ghost  stories  from  the  south  —   but  then  the  woman  mentions  an  unfamiliar  name,   perhaps  fondly,   and  a  breathy  wisp  of  air  escapes  her  chest,   relieved  to  have  not  caused  offense.