He gave me a penetrating stare.
And then he said, “I fucking hope so.”
“I’m gonna make it so.”
Another penetrating stare, before an ominous whispered repeat of, “I hope so, babe.”
I grinned hugely (and fakely at him).
He stared at that too.
Then shook his head and kept eating.
EIGHT
NICE CHAT
Knox was at the stove making scrambled eggs that smelled yummy.
Jacques was at Knox’s feet, naturally, because there was a stack of bacon Knox had fried sitting on the counter by the stove, and both my boys thought I didn’t know this, but I saw Knox had already dropped three broken off pieces to my dog.
I was letting them bond and standing in the open fridge.
“Where’s your grape jelly?” I asked, and not only because I was on toast duty for breakfast.
“I don’t eat grape jelly.”
Slowly, my head turned so I could look at him.
He was scooching very fluffy-looking eggs around the skillet. He’d sautéed mushrooms before, added them to the eggs, and it looked so good, I was about to fall face first into the pan.
“You don’t eat it because you have the body of a god and grape jelly messes with your six-pack? Or you don’t eat it because you don’t like it?”
He looked to me. “I don’t like it.”
That was when I feigned having a heart attack, hand pressed to my chest, reeling into the counter, the whole show.
He grinned at me.
“That’s…that’s…un-American,” I declared.
“Not quite,” he replied.
“It so is. How did you get into the army not liking grape jelly?”
He was still grinning.
God, I liked that look on his face.
“They didn’t ask,” he said.
“You’re telling me the United States Army does not have the question, ‘Do you like grape jelly, and if not, please see a member of personnel immediately so we can take you directly to counselling?’ on the application.”
“Stop being a smartass,” he said, humor heavy in his tone. “I’ll grab some when I swing by the store after work.”
You had to love a man who loved the grocery store.
Or at least I was finding this was the case.
