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Whatever I say, however I word it, I need to tread lightly, make sure she knows I’m only trying to help her. Give her options instead of dictating that she needs to change.
From the other side of Asra, Brendan nudges her shoulder. “Think it’s hot enough for those marshmallows?”
She shrugs.
“Don’t tell me you’ve never roasted marshmallows, either?”
“Um, I’m sure I have. Maybe, when I was really young.” She shrugs again, her eyes never wavering from the fire.
“Wait, so the queen of the night doesn’t go to bonfires?”
“Never really went to any.”
“How is that?”
Another shrug.
The air turns tense, unspoken words ringing louder than anything she could say. I don’t want to ask why or how, already suspecting the answer.
“Well, we need to remedy this right now. You got those marshmallows, bro?”
“Yep.” I dig in the pack at my feet, pulling out the bag of white, fluffy sugar and toss it to Brendan, grateful he’s able to break through the tension so easily. He wastes no time ripping it open and popping a few in his mouth while I pass out the skewers.
“Alright, Little Girl,” Brendan continues, grabbing Asra’s stick and pulling out a marshmallow, “here’s what you do. See, you take this one marshmallow,” he squeezes it a few times, “then slide it on your stick, like so. Then you wanna put it in the fire, angled up a little so it doesn’t slide off, right above a bunch ofthose hot, red coals but not in the flames. That’s where it’s hottest and will cook it best, not burn it to –”
“Give me the damn stick,” Asra interrupts, reaching over.
Yanking the skewer away right before she grabs it, he jumps up and unbuttons his pants.
“Are you flipping mad?” Asra blurts, standing up and trying to get her fire roaster.
“What?” He smiles wide, holding the skewer over his head, well out of her reach. She’s not short, but compared to us, she might as well be. “You asked for my stick.” He rotates his hips in a circle, tugging the waistband of his boxers down a little more.
“Wrong stick.” Standing up, I’m the one who interrupts and yanks the skewers out of Brendan’s grasp. I hand it to Asra, then sit back down and dig through the rest of the pack, pulling out the Graham crackers and looking for the chocolate bars. I know this is all fun to him, the thrill of the chase and whatnot, but I’m not having him push her too far or too fast and ruin any chance we have. “Where are the Hershey’s?”
“Didn’t get any. That shit’s boring.”Shrugging, he fastens his jeans back up and picks up another skewer.
“Okay, so how are we making s’mores?”
He grabs another marshmallow and shoves it on his skewer. “There’s other chocolate in there.”
Rolling my eyes, I search again. “There’s no chocolate in here.”
“Oh, that’s right,” he moves around to the other side of the fire and kneels down, holding his stick out close to the glowing embers, “I put ‘em in the cooler. Didn’t want ‘em melting. Grab me a beer while you’re in there.”
“Isn’t melted chocolate the point?” Asra asks, rotating her skewer over the flames like she’s trying to imitate one of those rotisserie ovens.
“Not until it’s all done. Watch moving it that fast, you’ll drop your –”
“Oops.” Her marshmallow slides off the thin, metal rod and lands in the flames.
“It’s alright, Little Girl, you can have mine. How do you like ‘em done?”
“Huh?”
“You want it burnt and crispy, or slightly golden with the inside nice and gooey? Somewhere in the middle?”
As they discuss the intricacies of a perfectly roasted marshmallow, I head to the back of the truck and grab the cooler and a lantern. Hauling it back to the fire pit, I flip on the light and grab a beer out from the top. “Heads up.” I hold it out until he nods, then toss it the few feet to him. As he balances his skewer on his legs and twists the top off, I search for whatever chocolate he found. “Okay, it looks like you get,” finding a little white bag, I hold it up and strain to read the label in the dark, “dark chocolate caramel with sea salt or mint chocolate.” I examine the package a little closer, it looks like homemade chocolates. “Where did you even find these?”
