Page 80 of Make Mine Sweet
If he keeps calling me that, I might not be for long.
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.”
