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“That shirt cost two thousand dollars.”
“No, it didn’t!” But her jaw drops.
“You’re right. Lucky for you.”
I actually enjoy the way her full, rosy lips part. Her whole face now matches the shade of her cheeks, and her hand hovers near her throat. I fixate on her lips for just a second. They’re soft, full, and slightly parted, and I can see the tiniest flash of her pink tongue.
I add that to the list of dislikes. Nope. Those lips of hers are not kissable or desirable. This can work without me developing a strange and annoying attraction.
I walk past her and join Shade. He already took out our favorite board game and is setting it up. Actually, it’s his favorite, but that’s okay. Anything he loves, I can get on board with, as long as it’s not bad or harmful. If he told me he wanted to juggle knives or light something on fire, that would be a hard no. But boardgames? Boardgames have this dad’s approval.
Feeney scuttles off to the kitchen, and I throw myself into the game so I don’t think about her anymore.
Except I do.
Of course I do.
When she calls us half an hour later, Shade goes running. I follow at a much slower pace because I don’t want to appear eager. Never mind. Not appear. I’m not eager. I follow slower because this is how I walk.
The table is laid out with a bowl of tossed salad, hard-boiled eggs, a loaf of bread, pickles, all the condiments, and cut oranges.
An actual healthy meal.
“Mmmm! Eggs!”
“Mmmm, hands,” Feeney reminds him gently.
“Oh. Right.” He runs around the island, pulls out his stool from inside the cupboard, and sets it in front of the sink. He goes to work, lathering up his hands and washing them off before drying them neatly with the towel hanging from the oven door.
I have to admit, I’m impressed. I’m big on hygiene, but I never really remember to remind Shade about handwashing before dinner. I barely remember to get him to brush his teeth before bed and in the morning.
Once we’re all seated—Shade and Feeney beside each other and across from me, I sample the salad. Not bad. Feeney makes Shade a plate. She only puts a few pieces of lettuce and cucumber on it. It’s astounding that she’s already learned he hates tomatoes and celery. She makes him a sandwich exactly the way I would with a sliced up egg, a tiny bit of salt (I would have gone heavier on it because I’m apparently not a good, healthy dad), and a small amount of mayo. She folds the single piece of bread over and puts it on Shade’s plate.
She digs in after. She’s not afraid to make her own sandwich with all sorts of strange things. She puts the egg on, then adds salt and pepper, pickles, green onion, mayo, and hot sauce. Ugh. What an abomination of a sandwich. I struggle to add food preferences as a strike against her on the list.
I struggle even more when I make my sandwich and taste it. I don’t know what she did to those eggs or how and where she got those pickles or the vegetables, but they’re delicious. Everything tastes like actual food.
“The farmer’s market,” she explains, even though I didn’t voice any of my thoughts. “It’s all grown locally, so it’s organic and fresh.”
“Oh.” I cram more sandwich into my mouth. “Yeah. It’s good.” I don’t ask how much it all costs because it doesn’t matter. She’d probably just lecture me about supporting local and eating fresh and organic anyway.
My body will thank me, especially since I hate cooking. I really shouldn’t bug her about her lack of skills when mine is only slightly better, but I haven’t burned pasta, just saying. I’m exhausted after work, though, so it’s usually easier to order something. I do work out every single morning to deal with the stress of what I do for a living, so thankfully, it hasn’t caught up to me yet. I also try and order healthy stuff at least three nights out of five, and on the weekends, I make an effort to scrape together something that isn’t fried or covered in cheese, so I figured I was doing okay.
Somehow, after Britt died, I managed to stay on the right side of the dirt. I know a lot of people who don’t because they can’t. Their bodies might be here, but obviously, the parts that matter go long before they ever physically do. I’ve been here for Shade, trying to keep everything together. I’ve thrown myself into work, and it’s paid off. Ironically enough, it was Britt’s death that opened my mind. I guess it was because I was working so hard, purposefully focusing on it so I wouldn’t have to think about her not being here or feel the pain. But of course I noticed. Of course I felt it. My work kept me sane, my work kept me alive, and it all paid off. All that focus. All that energy. All that sudden creativity.
