27. Ian
TWENTY-SEVEN
IAN
“Is avocado a fruit or a vegetable?” August asks.
If I hadn’t just spent the day with him, I might be alarmed at how quickly his train of thought swerves in new directions. He just asked Tess how sour cream is made, and after a surprisingly detailed explanation, he’s switched gears to the avocado slices he left on his plate.
“It’s a fruit,” she says. “Its pit is on the inside like an apple or a peach.”
He holds a round slice of banana in his fingers. “What’s a banana? It doesn’t have seeds.”
“It’s a fruit, too. See all those the tiny black spots? Those are the seeds.”
He seems to think about this. “Pumpkins have seeds on the inside.”
She nods earnestly. “They’re fruits, too.”
August laughs. “No they’re not!”
To be honest, I share his doubts.
“It’s true,” she says. “So are the tomatoes in your taco.”
“Cucumbers have seeds on the inside.”
I can’t tell if August is trying to win the argument or just coming up with more vegetables that might be fruits.
She dips her head at him, eyebrows raised. “They’re fruits, too.”
“I’m so confused right now,” I mutter.
“Vegetables are leaves, roots, and stems,” she explains, possibly to both of us. “Like lettuce, potatoes, and asparagus.”
August makes a yuck face. “I like fruit best.”
“I know you do. If you’re done with dinner, put your plate on the counter, please.”
He hops up and takes care of his plate as asked, then dashes into his room. Some noisy toy starts up, the soundtrack to my day here. I might need a Tylenol. Or five.
Tess’s gaze hits mine as if I said that out loud. “Are you sure you want to endure this for two more days?”
I level her with a hard look. That’s barely a step up from asking me if I’m tired. “It’s not a problem.”
Pretty sure she thinks I’ll see August as something she’s saddled with instead of the sweet, exuberant kid he is. Is that how the other men she’s dated have viewed him?
That question sits like asphalt in my gut. I don’t want to think about her with other men. Especially anyone stupid enough to let her go.
I stand to take both of our empty plates to the counter. Her mouth drops open, and I know she’s about to protest—it’s too much, she can handle it, I need a rest. I give her another stern look and start putting the dirty dishes in the dishwasher. She doesn’t have to do everything by herself.
I’d lecture her on that, but I’m pretty sure that would make me a hypocrite.
So we clean up together, setting her kitchen to rights. I scrape the grease out of the frying pan I used and get it sudsy. We put the leftovers in the fridge and clean the counters. It’s domestic and simple, but natural, too.
When we’re finished, we lean against the kitchen counter side by side. She dries her hands on a dish towel and passes it to me.
“Thank you for this. For staying for dinner, for helping clean up. Thank you for everything.”
The thought comes crystal clear—I don’t want her to thank me for any of those things. I want them to be a normal part of our days, not something she thinks she owes me for. I’m not sure where the thought comes from since I’ve never had that with anyone before. But she makes me want to try.
“You don’t have to thank me. It’s my pleasure, Tess.”
She rests her hands on either side of her hips on the counter behind her. “It’s nice to have it be more than just August and me. We’re used to communal living, since we were with my mom and sister for so long.”
She winces, as if wishing she hadn’t revealed that.
“What’s that face for?” I ask.
“It’s kind of pathetic, isn’t it? Living with my family at my age.”
I tilt my head closer. “You’re not that old.”
A wicked smile touches her mouth. “True. Compared to some people.”
Tease me about my age all you want, angel.
“Living with family is nothing to be ashamed of. Some people do it to save money, some people’s parents need their help. Sometimes it’s just the cultural norm. It doesn’t mean you’re somehow failing.”
“Thanks.” That soft word is barely a whisper. Once again, she’s thanking me for something I want to do naturally.
“And you’re here now,” I say to lighten this pressing, aching sensation under my ribs. “You’ve got your own place, even if the neighbors are less than desirable.”
“Aw. My neighbor’s not so bad. Even if he could stand to smile a little more.”
I mirror her pose, resting my hands on the counter behind us, letting my pinky and ring finger drape over hers. I have never been a man to think much about something as simple as touching fingers, but with Tess, that contact is a bright spotlight drawing all my attention.
“I think he has new reasons to smile,” I tell her.
She holds my gaze, letting the moment drag out. The urge to lean in becomes a tangible thing, like a hand on my back pressing me closer. The need to kiss her and let my fantasies melt into a perfect reality overwhelms. But with Tess, it’s more important for me to get things right than to get them now . I can be patient.
I think I can, anyway. I’ve never really tried before.
“Look at this!” August runs into the kitchen, paper in hand.
Tess shifts away just enough to break our small connection. In the grand scheme of things, a touch is nothing. Insignificant. But that one? I’ll carry it around with me for days.
He shows us a crayon drawing of a jack-o-lantern with green and yellow things coming out of the top. “It’s a pumpkin-cucumber-banana fruit!”
“I love it, buddy,” Tess says. “It’s getting late, though. Are you ready for stories?”
He slumps a bit, as if he doesn’t appreciate this news. “Can Ian read me my stories tonight?”
They both turn to look at me. It should be obvious to Tess I’ve never been asked to read anyone their bedtime stories before. Is the little glow of pride that he’d even ask me just as obvious?
“I don’t know,” Tess hedges. “Ian might be getting tired?—”
“That’s it. August, grab your books.” I shift Tess around so she’s facing me, then bend over and notch her waist at my shoulder. I straighten, lifting her in the air, and I’m not sure who shrieks louder, her or August. I march her into the living room, one hand on her thigh, the other at her hip on my shoulder, searing the feel of her into my synapses.
Her hands on my back are just the icing on the cake.
When I deposit her on the couch, she lands with a soft oomph . Her cheeks are rosy, but her mouth’s still open, indignant.
“I gave you fair warning.” I drop onto the cushion next to her.
“I will remember the magic word,” she finally says.
She doesn’t specify that she won’t use it again. Good.
“You carried Mama.” August’s standing in the middle of the living room, staring at me. “You must be really strong.”
Tess makes a soft sound, crossing her arms over her stomach. As if there’s a single part of her I wouldn’t worship if she let me.
“Your mama’s very light,” I tell him. “Where are your books?”
“Oh!” He darts into his bedroom and returns again seconds later, a stack in hand.
To my surprise, he crawls into my lap instead of Tess’s. He settles on my right thigh, leaning against my chest like he’s been here a dozen times before.
I’ve stood on top of mountain peaks. I’ve had week-long camping trips with A-list celebrities. I’ve pushed my body to its limits in pursuit of records and accolades. But this small child sitting in my lap feels like a personal best.
Tess watches us with an expression I can’t name. Whatever it is, it’s as significant as August’s sweet trust.
“This one’s funny,” August says, grabbing one from the stack he’d given Tess. He rests his head on my shoulder. “Will you read it?”
I read them all. I even do silly voices to make them both laugh. With every book, the warmth blooming in my heart grows until I’m steeped in it. This moment doesn’t belong to me, I’m only too aware. But I’m going to hold onto it for as long as I can.