Page 86 of The Cruelest Kind of Hate
“On second thought, poopy face is fine,” I rush out, still muzzling him in case a plethora of new curse words find their way out.
Gage quickly apologizes to the server before scooping our ice creams up in his arms and making a brisk walk toward the exit. Teague, like the little devil he is, runs ahead of us to a small knoll just outside of the quaint ice cream shop, plodding through fallen autumn leaves that cover the once-green grass.
“I can’t believe you said that in front of him!” I reprimand, and not in a mocking tone this time.
“I didn’t think he actually listened to me!” Gage defends, albeit poorly.
“You better hope he doesn’t say that out on the ice.”
“Don’t worry, I’ve heard far worse insults out there.”
I stubbornly take my ice cream from him, but I’ve gotten far worse at hiding my smile whenever he does something remotely stupid. I used to be so good about it too. He’s finally achieved his tireless venture in making me soft. Now I’m like, goo-puddle soft.
As we climb up the knoll, I bump my shoulder with his. “Thank you. For the ice cream.”
“My dad was never around to buy me ice cream after games. I don’t want Teague growing up thinking his accomplishments aren’t acknowledged.”
It tears me up inside that Gage’s parents will never realize how amazing he’s turned out, despite their obvious lack of parenting. That’s every parent’s dream—for them to roll out adecent kid. I’d never tell Gage to his face, but I hope Teague grows up to be just like him one day. Caring, ambitious, courageous. Maybe minus the annoying part. But I’m pretty sure that’s just some deformed gene specific to Gage himself that won’t be passed down to anyone other than his offspring.
Ugh. Imagine having miniature Gages running around. Hold on a second. WhyamI imagining that? And why, in my imagination, am I dressed in an apron and setting the dinner table like some kind of domestic housewife? Oh, God. I don’t want kids. Not even when I’m pushing fifty. Get me out of here, brain!
“He appreciates it, even if he doesn’t say it,” I assure Gage. “You’re spoiling him, you know.”
Gage sits down on the desiccating land, brushing away some of the crisp leaves and making a poke-free seat for me. He hands Teague his tower of fudge ice cream, but he keeps his eyes firmly set on me.
“I like spoiling the people I care about.”
My entire body heats up, undoubtedly saturating my cheeks in a bold blush. The sun sags just beneath the shingled roof of the ice cream shop, pouring shades of orange and pink over the tinted sky. I can see glimpses of it through the sparse, flaxen-colored foliage hanging above us, attached to a grand oak that sways in the autumn breeze, lending its rustling susurrations to the background of our conversation. The weather is still warm, not yet warranting the need for a sweater or a cardigan, and I let myself bask in it like a heated, golden-painted caress.
Teague digs into his treat right away, somehow getting chocolate all over his face within the first few bites. Gage volunteers to run back to grab some napkins, and I attempt to rub some of the filth off my brother’s face with a wet thumb.
“You know we’re helping Mom move into her new house tomorrow, right?” I remind him, surprised at how steady my voice sounds.
Teague continues to make a dent in his ice cream, unfazed like his usual self. “Yep! I hope she likes it. I heard they have a pool. That’s so cool! I wish we had a pool.”
I brush my hand down his head and chuckle. “You know, if you’re nice enough, I’ll put in a good word for you. Ask the nurses if you can go for a swim.”
“Really?”
“Of course, Squirt. But you have to promise to come visit Mom with meeverySunday, got it?” I stick my pinky out for a Cadwell pinky promise, wiggling it like that’ll entice him more.
I think I’ve been looking at this new chapter in our lives all wrong. This is a new beginning for my mother—a beginning that I could never offer her on my own. This is another chance at who knows how many years this place will gift her, giving her a life full of laughter and love and less pain. This is a good thing. It’s scary and different, but it’s good.
My brother eagerly hooks our pinkies together. “Deal!”
Teague’s suddenly wrangled into Gage’s arms as Gage fruitlessly starts to wipe the fudge from my brother’s sticky skin with a napkin. “Hold still, bud.”
Teague kicks and squeals, moving his head around so that Gage’s efforts to clean him are useless, and he darts out of his grasp, choosing to barrel-roll down the small hill. His shirt and pants are covered in fragmented chunks of leaves, and he stays close by us as he runs aimlessly around and does whatever weird ritual eight-year-olds do when they experience a giant sugar high.
“If he pukes, I’m blaming you,” I growl, wiping my chocolate-stained fingers on the napkin.
Gage snorts. “He’ll be fine. Look at him! Kid’s on cloud nine.”
My brother does like to run around in circles when he’s happy. He even has his tongue lolling out of his mouth like a dog.
I take my ice cream cup in my hands and start to prod at the ice cream with my spoon before realizing that it’s completely white, save for a single, red gummy bear sitting in the drooping middle. Vanilla. Of course.
Gage pops a loaded spoonful of chocolate and marshmallow into his mouth. “The gummy bear’s me, obviously. And you’re the vanilla.”
