Page 72 of Gross Misconduct

I point to the dining room. “George,” I say loudly. “There will be no smoking in the house while we’re gone. If you need to smoke, you can do it outside on the deck.”

I hold George’s non-existent eye contact for an extra second to get my point across, and I almost trick myself into believing there’s a chain smoking reindeer in my house.

* * *

By the timewe go into town for lunch, the rain’s gone. The girls still insisted on wearing their rain boots; June hops into every puddle on the sidewalk as we walk from the car to Caroline’s, a beloved greasy spoon diner with delicious food. It’s one of the few places where the girls can find something on the menu.

“Dad, what’s eggplant parma-sand?” Annabelle asks.

“Parmesan. It’s an Italian dish. Have you had eggplant before?”

The girls shrug, unsure. I give myself a Dad demerit because that’s something I should know.

“For breakfast?” June asks.

“Those are eggs, I’m assuming. Eggplant is different. Why don’t you girls split a sandwich?” Caroline’s piles their sandwiches a mile high. We’re talking walls of pastrami and chicken salad.

“I don’t want to share!” June protests.

“Why don’t we all share?” I propose. “You can have half of my sandwich.”

“We have to share your half?” Annabelle cocks her head to the side as she tries to do the math. Fractions are a new concept for her. June shakes her head no, never one to wait for the data.

“What if I get a sandwich, and you each get a cup of soup?”

“I don’t want soup,” June says.

“What kind of sandwich do you want?”

“Do they put mustard on the turkey?” Annabelle wonders.

“We can get it without.” I study her face to determine whether that was the right answer. “Or with.” I’ll bet Des has less trouble negotiating multi-million dollar contracts.

“Can they put mustard in the middle of the sandwich?” June asks.

“I don’t like mustard. I like ketchup!” Annabelle chimes in, panicked.

“I don’t want ketchup on mine. Gross,” June shoots back.

“Here’s what we’re going to do.” I bend down their menus so I can see them, then I go in for the close. “We’ll split a turkey sandwich and ask for mustard and ketchup on the side. I’ll put ketchup on the bread of Annabelle’s half, and I’ll put mustard on the pieces of turkey in the middle of June’s half. Okay?”

The girls hesitate a moment, considering the offer. I keep my fingers crossed we can avoid another round of negotiations. When they give me the greenlight nod, I let out a small sigh of relief.

“Can we get dessert?” June smiles at me, never knowing when to quit while she’s ahead.

“We’re eating lunch first.” I look to get the waitress’s attention, when I spot Jack sitting at the counter, hunched over a menu and a cup of coffee, a quiet moment to himself. There’s something unguarded and tentative about seeing him in the wild like this. His typical bravado from the ice, and from the bar, isn’t present.

I wave to him when he catches me looking. He nods back, another polite gesture. Funny how we’re so good at getting each other off, but polite gestures feel odd and foreign. He shoves his hands in his cozy hoodie as he reads through the menu. I don’t know what it is about men in hoodies that turn them automatically into cute, strong teddy bears.

“Who’s that, Daddy?” the girls ask.

“That’s, uh, nobody.” I instantly get a twinge of guilt for lying to my girls, even if it is a little white one. They scrunch their little foreheads, adorably calling bullshit, too. “That’s my friend, Jack.”

“Why is he eating alone?” Annabelle ponders. Kids have a preternatural ability to ask direct questions. Getting older means gaining a filter, which has its pluses and minuses.

“I don’t know. I guess he has to eat a quick meal. He probably has lots of things to do.”

The girls peek over the top of our booth at Jack, and I can’t help but join them. It’s one of the few times where he isn’t his cocky self, like an actor caught off camera.

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