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Abigail
I go home, take a shower, rinse and condition my hair—because I learned at a very early age that people with hair as curly as mine know it’s hair suicide to wash it every day. Then I get dressed in one of my Lake Fisher t-shirts, put on some jeans because the night air can be chilly, and I go back to find the boys.
When I get there, they’re putting hot dogs in buns, and Ethan is cutting up an apple using his pocketknife. He looks up when he hears my footsteps and smiles at me. “I was starting to think you weren’t coming back.” He looks at me through one eye, the way he always does when he’s thinking. “I’m glad you did,” he says quietly.
I’m glad too. “What can I help you do?”
“Nothing,” he says with a shrug. “Mitchell roasted all the hot dogs all by himself. And I cut up some fruit.” He leans close to me and whispers, “What else do I need?”
“You don’t need anything,” I whisper back.
He grins and waggles his brows at me. “I can think of one thing I need.”
Mitchell pretends to gag from where he’s sitting at the little picnic table eating a hot dog. “Girls are gross,” he says with his mouth full.
“I’d prefer for you to finish chewing before you talk,” Ethan warns, but he smiles at him while he does it. Mitchell tucks back into the food, and Ethan lays a cut-up apple on the side of his plate. He spears one of the apple slices with his knife and holds it out in my direction. “Apple?” He waits.
I reach out and take it. “I’m afraid to ask where that knife has been,” I say. My grandfather always used to cut his toenails with his. Ick.
He looks offended. “I disinfected it before I cut the apple.”
“He did,” Mitchell chimes in. “I saw him.” A piece of apple flies out of his mouth and hits the table, so he scoops it up and shoves it back into his mouth.
“Talk about gross,” I tease. He grins at me and keeps eating.
“How much are they supposed to eat?” Ethan asks me quietly, leaning toward me so he can whisper. His gaze moves to his son and back to me, over and over. “He’s on his fourth hot dog.”
“I think it’s probably fine,” I say. I don’t really know that much about kids, though, so I could be totally wrong.
Ethan passes me a hot dog, which he has already smeared with mustard. “Sorry,” he says sheepishly. “I forgot the chili.”
Mitchell holds up one finger. “Next time, we need chili and onions.”
“You eat onions?”
He nods, his mouth full once again. “I eat everything.”
Ethan waggles his brows at me again. “Like father like son.”
Heat creeps up my cheeks as I sit down at the little table and take a bite of my hot dog.
&nbs
p; Mitchell jumps up from the table. “I have to pee,” he says as he dances in place. “Where’s the bathroom?”
Ethan jerks his thumb toward the tree line on the other side of the campsite. “Go pee in the bushes.”
“Really?” Mitchell replies. “Cool!”
He runs toward the trees.
“Keep it pointed away from the lady!” Ethan calls to his retreating back. Mitchell doesn’t reply, but he does give him a thumbs-up over his shoulder.
“So, how’s it going?” I ask.
He sucks in a slow breath. “Great, actually. Is that weird?”
I shake my head. “I don’t think it’s weird. I think it’s wonderful. He’s a good kid.”
