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I stay focused on Scout. “Actually, I have an idea. Want to have a fruit race?”
His eyes flash, and he nods enthusiastically at the sign of a game he’s probably not supposed to play with his food, but I persist, taking the blueberries from the bowl and making a long line between us on the table. I put one strawberry in the middle.
“Okay, when I say go, you go this way, and I’ll go that way, and we try to eat them all. If you make it past the center strawberry, you win.” I point to where he needs to start and count down to the start. “Three, two, one…go.”
Scout picks up one blueberry at a time, puts it in his mouth, and chews. I do the same, but more slowly, making sure he’s eating at least two for each one I put in my mouth. He starts picking up the pace, scooping two and three at a time. There’s no question he’s going to win, and he doesn’t seem to notice how slowly I’m going. In under a minute, he’s demolished most of the fruit and puts his hands up, victorious.
“Woo hoo, we have a winner!” I fist-bump him, and he eats a few strawberries for good measure.
Scout doesn’t ask why I’m still here, and I wonder how Luke explained to him that special friends sometimes fall asleep on the couch. Glancing at the grumpy cowboy still flipping pancakes, I get no closer to an answer. He seems determined to keep his back to me and his attention on measuring batter.
After a few more bites, Scout pushes his plate away. “I’m done!’
“What do we say?” Luke asks, eyeing the plate, which still has many pancake pieces but the fruit is nearly gone.
“May I be excused?’
“Yes. Go put a hoodie in your backpack for school, and I’ll finish making your lunch,” Luke says. I look over and notice he’s doing double duty, putting goldfish crackers, cut-up peaches, and a quesadilla into reusable containers and packing them in a small cooler.
“Wow, you really have to do everything, huh?”
He looks around the kitchen as though he’s searching for something or someone. “Um, I don’t see anyone else here who’s gonna do it.”
“Let me help.” I stand next to him and cut some grapes in half, putting those into the container with the peaches. “Choking hazard,” I say when I catch him staring.
“How’d you know that?”
“I told you. I’m an aunt.” I hand him the filled container and snap the one with the quesadillas closed. He puts everything into a reusable lunch cooler.
“Thanks for the help. Especially yesterday.” The words seem to get caught in his throat, and I get the impression he’s not used to people helping him.
“Anytime.”
He huffs a laugh.
“No, seriously. Just ask.”
His eyes land on me, vulnerable. Softer than his usual intense gaze. He nods.
Taking a cup of coffee from the counter, he puts it in the microwave to reheat it, then brings it to the table along with the half-full French press pot. Gesturing to an empty mug, he lifts the pot. “Coffee?”
“Yes. Please.” He pours, and I take a long, necessary sip. “You do a good coffee, Cowboy Dad.”
“Another nickname.” He rolls his eyes.
“Gonna keep throwing them out until one of them sticks.”
Luke looks too tired to argue. His dark eyes are half-covered by drooping eyelids, and the creases at the edges make him look older than he probably is. I’m guessing early forties, based on him saying he was thirty-six when he got married, but with his weathered skin and the old soul vibe he’s got going, he looks a half dozen years older.
“Nice trick with the fruit, by the way.”
I shrug. “Not my first time around the block with a kid who didn’t want to eat produce.”
Luke rubs the back of his neck and grimaces. “You’d think a kid growing up on a farm where he can reach out and touch the very best produce on the planet wouldn’t be so averse to eating it.”
“He’s a kid. It’s still a fast food nation. I’m sure he’ll come to love and appreciate what you’re doing out there once he’s a little older, and he learns about the corporate food chain. He looks up, like he’s surprised I know anything about it. “Yeah, I’m a city girl, but I know some stuff,” I tell him.
“Is that so?”
