Page 46 of Tinsel in Telluride

“Yes!” he cheers, like I’ve just given him permission to have candy before dinner.

He reaches over and awkwardly stabs a piece of chicken from his plate and reaches up, offering it to me.

My eyes fall in a longing glance at the ribs on my plate. I’ve been dreaming about them since Enzo booked this excursion for us—all smothered in homemade barbecue sauce, smoked low and slow for hours.

And now I’m settling for my kid’s chicken.

There’s got to be some bullshit parenting meme about this. If not, I'm going to make one.

A small laugh catches my attention. I look in the direction it came from and spot Leigh, hand covering her mouth. Tears are in her eyes, but also the hint of a smile just past the edges of her fingers.

I lean forward and make an exaggerated chomping sound as I wrap my lips around the fork and slide the meat from the end, my eyes never leaving hers.

Zach cheers and stabs another piece, lifting it to my mouth. “Again!”

“Nope,” I say, pressing my lips together tight. “Now I get to feed you.”

I pierce a piece of chicken from his plate and lift it in front of him.

He eyes the food and mimics me, pressing his lips together before pointing at my plate. “Nope.”

Shit.

I was really hoping he hadn’t understood that part of the story and wants me to feed me from his plate, so I could at least save the ribs for later.

“Okay,” I sing-song. Holding a silent funeral for my stomach and the ribs that are no longer mine, I cut a small piece and offer it to Zach.

He gives me the biggest smile and chomps down on the fork, rubbing his belly as he chews.

“Is that good?”

He nods and offers me the chicken once again.

We go back and forth until half the food is gone from both of our plates.

“Alright bud,” I start, “I think it’s time for you to show us all your skills.”

“All skills,” he mimics.

“Exactly.” I stab a piece of my ribs and put it in my mouth, savoring the taste with an emphatic “Yum.”

Zach looks down at his plate, then glances at mine.

“Now it’s your turn.”

The table goes quiet—everyone fully invested in my endeavor to get Zach to use a fork on his own.

He eyes our plates again, before he reaches over and stabs a piece of my ribs and brings it to his lips. He makes a big show with a chomping sound as he slides it from the fork into his mouth and gives a loud, “Yum.”

The entire table erupts in cheers. Holt and Bash stand, circling their fists over their heads, and Enzo pats Zach on the back, telling him how awesome that was.

But it’s Leigh who has my attention.

Her blue eyes are locked on Zach, the silver tears that rimmed her eyes before now fall freely as she clutches her sweater in a tight fist. She tries to blink them back, sucking in asharp breath. Then another. Until her chest heaves and I realize it’s not sadness she’s holding back, but panic.

Shit.

I press my hands to the table and stand, which catches her attention.

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