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“Yeah. So, I pretend I’m over the swamp in The Princess Bride and if I fall, the R. O. U. S.es will get me.”
“The Rodents of Unusual Size? They’re scary.”
Owen’s eyes light up. “You sawThe Princess Bride?”
“One of the best movies of all time.” Everett grins. “I’ll try your method.”
“Okay, and I’ll be one of the giant rats trying to eat you,” he says right before getting on his hands and knees.
Great. He’s gonna be filthy in the car. Awesome.
But this time, when Everett goes over the bars, he keeps his legs up even higher, so Owen has room to chase him as a giant rat. Sometimes, he dangles his legs low and shouts, “Oh no! Not the R. O. U. S.es!” and Owen rears up and roars, trying to grab him. They both laugh, then Everett goes to the next bar. Never did I think my son pretending to be a rat would be the cutest thing ever, but it is. He’s having the best time and—
Oh my god, he’s broken his rule about getting dirty, and he broke it to help Everett. Holy crap. He likes him a lot.
Everett gets to the seventh bar and drops, and Owen grabs at his coat, like he’s eating him. Then they both crack up and run to the big play system thing. It’s got a couple slides, a bridge, a lookout tower, a climbing wall, all the good stuff. They weave in and out of the thing, while I sip tea and take pictures. I’d play with them, too, except I want them to get to spend time together without me. Let them get their vibe going.
But after a while, Owen’s tuckered out, so Everett gives him a piggyback ride to the picnic table, declaring in a booming, Scottish-esque voice, “Men are here! After many battles, we need food, fair maiden!” Owen giggles as he climbs down Everett.
He shakes his head. “She’s not a fair maiden! She’s Fiona!”
“Oh, I’m an ogre too?”
“If you want to be.”
I shrug. “I’ve been called worse.”
“I’m Donkey. He’s Shrek.”
“Here you go, Donkey.” Passing them the ravioli thermoses, I stick with my tea. I’m too anxious to eat solids right now. They dig in, and I raise my brows at Everett, then tip my head at Owen.
Everett looks terrified, but nods.
Here goes everything. I take a breath to steady myself, then ask, “Owen, how’s the ravioli?”
“It’s so good. We should have ravioli all the time.”
“And was Everett good on the playground?”
He giggles. “Mom, he’s a grown-up.”
“I know, but even grown-ups can be mean.”
He beams and shakes his head. “Not Everett. He’s good.”
“Remember how I told you I was trying to track down your father?”
“Yeah.”
“I did.”
“Really?” He sets his ravioli aside.
My heart stops. “Your father is Everett, Owen.”
He looks at Everett, then at me. Then Everett again. “You’re my dad?”
Slowly, Everett nods. “I hope that’s okay.”
