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I’m used to it by now.
Thankfully, Nell doesn’t need me to talk much, just as long as she’s sure I’m listening and paying attention. She tells me how she wants to be a professional flower girl.
Probably because she got so much gushing attention looking cute as a daisy in Lucas’ wedding. Big change from last week when she wanted to be a rocket engineer. I’m sure next week she’ll want to be an architect or a postmodern painter selling NFTs.
What can I say, the girl’s bright as hell for her age.
She yammers on about Miss Delilah and how she’s gonna be sad to move on from her class and into Miss Nora’s soon. But apparently, Miss Delilah promised she can come over and play, and when she’s old enough, maybe she can even babysit the Graves’ baby.
When she goes off about how hugeMiss Delilah is now that she’s almost ready to pop, I groan and remind myself to ask Lucas if Nell actuallysaid thatto his wife’s face and to apologize if she did.
How the hell is someone related to me so talkative?
She sure as hell inherited the Faircross gene for no filter, though.
Girl never knows when to keep certain things to herself.
She hasn’t stopped talking even when we get to the ice cream parlor. She waves impatiently, leading me inside, chattering away as we meet my folks and we all put in our orders and find a table.
My parents end up with modest scoops of mint chip and rocky road. I just snag a cone with the darkest chocolate I can find.
Of course, little Nell orders herself a towering sundae so complicated the poor girl behind the counter looks frazzled trying to keep up with all the fixings.
I balance my cone in one hand as I pull out Nell’s chair so she doesn’t drop that ridiculous sundae.
“Uncle Grant.” She frowns at my cone. “That’sallyou’re going to get? You’re sovanilla, Uncle Grant.”
What the hell?
She better not know what that means.
And it’s dirt-black chocolate laced with almonds, thank you.
I choke on my next breath anyway while my dad chuckles. My mother hides a titter behind her hand.
“This look like vanilla to you? Don’t you ever say that again,” I growl, brandishing my cone at her. I slump down in one of those tiny damn chairs that feels like it’s ready to turn into a pile of splinters under me. “That doesn’t mean what you think it means.”
“Huh?” Nell blinks at me innocently. “What does it mean then?”
“Maybe when you’re older,” I grumble.
Like hell.
I may be here raising her since her old man ain’t, but I’m sure as hell not explainingthatto her. There’s enough dread with having The Talk at all when she gets older if my folks won’t pick up the slack.
Knowing Nell, she’ll be just as irreverent as ever and enjoy watching me squirm while I try to explain basic biology and safe sex and all that other crap that comes with growing up. I’m sure she’ll already know more than I do from all the books she crams into her head.
Whatever.
I should know there’s something up when she actually accepts my answer.
Nell normally never lets anything go without a little arguing, a little cajoling, a little pouting when nothing else helps get her way.
For now she just chirps “Okay” and buries her face in her sundae.
It’s almost gone before I find out the reason.
“So,” she says, licking a little whipped cream off her spoon, “I need a tent for the field trip.”
