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I flounder for a word to sum up what it feels like to watch their arrangement. “The children in those cultures are notably happy and well-adjusted compared to other child-rearing models. And adults are less overwhelmed.” I have no idea if turning this into a monologue is making this better or worse.
“Sorry Evie’s joint family is keeping custody until bedtime. Still,” she adds, “pizza is a pretty serious word. I need to investigate your claims of ‘doctoring’ and also figure out why you’re cooking it on rocks.”
I give her a small smile. “It’s a pizza stone. It makes for a crispier crust. You’re certainly welcome to try it. I have dessert too.”
She sighs. “I don’t care if you’re only tricking me so you can lock me in a cage and fatten me up before you bake me. Dessert bribes will work every time.”
“I’m not trying to bribe you.” Why is it that I so often get twisted around when I’m with this woman? I always manage to say the wrong thing in the wrong way with her.
“Kidding, Henry.” She’s already moving up my walkway. “I want to try your pizza and eat some dessert, but I’m trying to make it seem like I’m doing you a favor.”
I relax a fraction. “I see. In that case, I would appreciate it if you could come in and do some quality control.”
“If I must,” she says, brushing past me. She smells like . . . vanilla? The bakery kind, not the imitation kind.
Inside, I wave her to the table, which I’ve set, and return from the kitchen bearing a pizza and a salad.
“I’ll try the pizza, but I truly don’t have room for vegetables.”
I put the plate down in front of her and take my seat. “Did you have vegetables with your Sunday dinner?”
“Potatoes.”
“Any vegetables with color?” I’m sensing a not-so-hidden pattern in her eating.
“Corn,” she announces triumphantly.
“That’s a grain. Anything else?”
She says nothing.
“Mmhmm. You don’t have to eat the salad. I’m not your dad. But I’m also definitely not giving you the panna cotta I bought for dessert if you don’t.”
“But you just said you’re not my dad.”
“Correct. I’m trying to be a good neighbor. A good neighbor asks after your health. An even better onelooksafter your health.”
She grabs her fork, stabs a large forkful of salad, chews it up, and sets her fork down. “Happy?”
“I don’t have an opinion on it,” I say. “But I’m pretty sure your liver is thanking me.”
She rolls her eyes. “What kind of pizza is this, anyway? That amount of green is sus, but it smells divine.”
“Sus?” She has a unique talent for using words every ten minutes that make me feel older than dirt.
“Suspect. What is it?”
“Basil pesto, broccolini, and baby spinach,” I say. “Thin crust baked to the perfect texture. Tell me what you think.”
She takes a bite. Her eyes widen, showing a gray rim around her iris I haven’t noticed before.
“I’ve gotten used to eating pizza Evie’s way, which means cheese, and on an adventurous day, cheese and pepperoni, but oh, man. This is amazing.”
“Thank you.”
She laughs, and it startles me.
“What?” I ask.
