Page 30 of Smoked

I stare at the firebox, the coals glowing through the vent. "For a long time after that I thought I might want more kids."

I don’t know why I say it. And I roll my shoulders to try and walk it back. "I mean, I was thirty. That's a normal thing to think at thirty. But it does seem pretty ridiculous at this point, so."

She frowns. "Why ridiculous?"

"I'm forty-five, Tess. I've got a teenager, a semi, and a smoker that could probably use a new baffle plate. Adding a baby to all that is..." I trail off with a sound that's supposed to be a laugh, but comes out sadder than I intend.

She nods. "I want a kid," she says. As if she's been thinking about it for a long time and the words have been ready. "I want to adopt."

I turn to look at her.

"I told you about my sister, Cora, who works for Doctors Without Borders…” she starts. “Well, she comes across so many orphaned children. It would be amazing to welcome one of those children into a loving home.” She smiles. "I've been reading about the adoption process for almost a year. It's complicated and long, and Cora says I'm insane, and I know I'm twenty-five, single, and it might be ten years away. But it's something I’d like to pursue."

And I can see it…the house full of noise, toys, and homework on the kitchen table. Tess in the doorway hollering about dinner, and a kid running through the backyard.

But I’d be pushing sixty. She wouldn’t want to build a family with an old man. She needs someone her own age.

"I think you’d make a great mom, Tess,” I say, hoping she can’t hear the sadness in my voice. “Now go…sleep. The ribs will need your attention before you know it.” I pat her knee and she kisses me once, quickly, before crossing to the truck.

I should be watching the coals. Instead I'm staring through them.

What am I doing?

Tess deserves a man who can give her the life she wants. Someone her own age who can keep up for thirty years and doesn't need to worry about what he looks like doing it. Somebody who can be there for her instead of on the road hauling freight to keep the lights on. Somebody smart like her, who can hand her a real future.

Like I’ve always said, she deserves a guy who writes her love letters and can spoil her rotten.

The most loving thing I can do is step back and let her have that life with someone more suitable.

By the time she's back under the canopy, alert, hair damp from the water she splashed on her face in the fairground bathroom, the brisket's at 195 internal and the bark is exactly where I want it—dark, tacky, and holding together when I press it. This is the window where I lost it last year, too tired to feel the difference between patience and negligence.

She's pulling the butcher paper and foil while I probe the flat one more time.

"Now?" she asks.

"Now."

We work fast. She tears the paper, I lift the brisket, and we're wrapping, her holding the edges taut while I roll, when the foil catches on the edge of the cutting board and rips. Enough to let precious jus run across the paper and drip off the table onto the ground. That’s three, maybe four ounces of liquid I can't get back.

She grabs a towel. "I've got it⁠—"

"Don't." I hear it leave my mouth, clipped and hard. "Just hold the paper and don't move."

She holds and I re-wrap. It's fine. It's recoverable. To be honest, the brisket isn’t ruined losing four ounces of jus.

But I'm upset. "You have to watch the edges, Tess. I told you, the foil goes under the paper, not on top, and you pull toward you, not away. If we'd lost that whole wrap we're starting over with ten minutes and no margin."

"I know⁠—"

"No, you obviously don’t know. Stupid mistakes can’t happen. This isn't practice anymore."

As soon as the words are out, I realize they’re wrong. I don’t know what my problem is. She's standing right there being perfectly good at this and it’s just making everything harder.

She sets the towel down and glares up at me with those damn blue-green eyes that I could live in.

"I understand the pressure," she says, calmly. "And I'm letting this one go, Wade.” She pauses to swallow. “But if you ever talk to me in such a condescending way again, it'll be the last time I cook with you. Period."

Then she picks up the foil and tapes it where I need it and goes back to work.