“They weren’t jealous.”
“Boss, I don’t need to know what you looked like at ten or twelve to know they were jealous. There hasn’t been a moment in your life where you weren’t the most gorgeous woman—or girl—in a room. You were a swan in a room full of emotionally stunted ducklings. It wasn’t your fault.”
Kayla nibbles the inside of her cheek again, but the dampness in her eyes has dried up, replaced by a pensive look. There’s only one person in front of us in line, so our conversation is about to pause. I’m tempted to let the family behind us go on in front, but the sooner we get to the table, the sooner we can continue.
“My mom loved the Ugly Duckling story. I thought it was weirdly anti-adoption, so I never let her reread it, but she always said she thought it was beautiful how the swan finally finds a family where it fits.”
“The swan was perfect all along,” I say. “And spectacularly hot.”
She laughs. “I think the swan was a boy.”
“No. It was a girl. And she was hot.”
“Next,” the man behind the register asks.
Kayla’s too busy giggling, so I take the liberty of ordering one of everything.
The only seats available are at long picnic tables surrounded by other people.
Kayla doesn’t even eat in front of me. I don’t know how she’s going to handle this. And that fact seems to be weighing on her mind.
Kayla sits next to a mom, who has a toddler next to her and her husband and another kid across from them, on my side. The family is too distracted to even know we’re sharing a table with them. The kids are a mess—barbecue sauce everywhere, mac and cheese stuck in their hair. When the younger boy knocks his lemonade across the table, the parents swap tired, frazzled looks, and then the mom pulls out half a roll of paper towel from the holder in front of her and wipes it up.
Then the toddler knocks over the dad’s drink, too, and the spill spreads across the table, creeping toward our plates.
“I’m sorry,” the dad says. “We can’t take these two anywhere.”
“You’re at Big Hank’s Hog Heaven,” I tell the man, helping him wipe up the table. “If you can’t take kids here, that’s the world’s problem, not yours. You’re okay, man.”
The little boy who knocked over the drinks stands on the bench, face buried in his dad’s shirt. At first I think he’s using it like a napkin, but on second glance, I realize he’s watching Kayla.
What is that, peek-a-boo?
No. He’s copying her.
She’s got her hat pulled down low over her eyes, then peeks out from under the brim.
The kid peeks out from behind his dad’s shirt.
She sticks out her tongue.
So does he.
She crosses her eyes and makes a fish face.
He copies her like it’s his job.
His dad finally sits. Kayla smiles at the kid, eyes crinkling with delight.
And he smiles right back.
“Okay, Shane, time to eat,” his mom says, pushing his plate in front of him.
“No!” he screams. “I hate bah-be-cue!”
“I love barbecue,” Kayla says loudly. She acts like she’s saying it to me so little Shane won’t get suspicious. She grabs her sticky, sauce-soaked pork sandwich, and holds it up in front of her mouth.
Shane’s protest dies as he mirrors her instantly. He picks up his sandwich and excitedly holds it right in front of his mouth. Waiting for Kayla to take a bite.
