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“Yeah, Daddy?” She pokes her head down the stairs two minutes later.
I look at her from the bottom of the stairs. “How’d you feel about getting McDonald’s tonight? Marissa is having a craving.”
My daughter gives me a shrewd smile, and I immediately catch on to my mistake: admitting we’ll have to go to McDonald’s either way.
She takes a few steps down the stairs. “I’d love to have McDonald’s, Daddy.” The carrot first, and now the stick. “As long as it doesn’t count as my fast-food night; I really wanted Taco Bell this week.”
I’m beaten, and she knows it.
“You drive a hard bargain,” I tell her. “You can have tacos on Friday if you eat extra veggies all week, deal?”
She smiles at me as she jumps from the last steps to fly directly into my arms. “Deal.”
“We’ll take a Happy Meal…”
“Hamburger or McNuggets?”
“McNuggets.” I peer down at Nora for confirmation, and she nods.
“Four or six McNuggets, sir?” the cashier asks.
“Six!” Nora yells enthusiastically.
“Six,” I repeat, studying the menu board. “Then a Smoky BLT Quarter Pounder menu and a McChicken menu.”
“Medium or large?”
“Large. Is it possible to get a side of pickles?”
“Excuse me, sir?”
“I’d like extra pickles on the side, like a ton of them.”
“I’m sorry, but we only serve pickles in burgers. They’re not a separate item on the menu.”
I begin to sweat cold. “Mmm, okay, it’s just that my err…” What is Marissa? Not my wife, not my girlfriend, but she’s definitely my ex-girlfriend. “See, my ex is pregnant.” I scratch the back of my head. “And she’s craving pickles. McDonald’s pickles, specifically. And I’m trying to keep on her good side to win her back…” The cashier looks more perplexed the more I talk. “Anyway, I guess I’ll just take ten basic burgers, extra, extra pickles, and hold everything else.”
She maintains eye contact for an extra second before saying, “Hold on a moment, sir.” She scurries off to the kitchen and comes back two minutes later with a middle-aged guy in tow, who turns out to be the manager and who hands me a tub of pickles, saying, “On the house, and congratulations.”
I pay and thank them as profusely as if I owed my life to them.
The walk from McDonald’s to Marissa’s brownstone is short.
Nora holds my hand in hers, swinging our joined hands as we walk. For the entire journey, she speculates about which Happy Meal toy she’ll find until we reach Marissa’s doorstep.
“Pickles!” Marissa shrieks when she opens the door.
She grabs the bags of take-out from me as if I were carrying a pot of gold. She ushers us inside and at once starts ranting about how annoying pregnancy cravings can be.
“I don’t understand it,” Marissa complains, as she sits at the already laid kitchen table. “I won’t enjoy a single bit of what I’m craving, but I can’t stop eating.”
I hand Nora her Happy Meal, and she takes a chair next to Marissa, lining up the McNuggets and fries in front of her.
As Marissa unpacks the food, I take the seat on her other side.
“Aaah,” she squeals. “They gave you a whole tub? This is perfection!” She grabs my face and kisses my cheek.
If I knew pickles would get me this response, I would’ve gotten a thousand tubs.
