Page 92 of Make Mine Sweet
August appears from behind the cart, wearing a shirt with the grumpy patriotic Muppet on it, waving glow sticks around. Glad to see he’s feeling like himself again after the stomach bug. I stopped by yesterday to make sure he was on the upswing. Not because Tess can’t handle his diabetes—just like August manages his pump on his own, she didn’t really need me there, even in the worst of it.
Nope, I checked in for my own peace of mind. I needed to see his little smile and verify for myself she was holding up okay. I didn’t stay long, just reiterated I was there for them if they needed me. Still am.
August catches sight of me and grins. “Ian!”
Tess looks around. When our gazes meet, she shines like she’s made of sunbeams. Having that effect on her doesn’t seem real. I want to see her shine like this every day.
“You made it.” Her gaze drifts over me, her smile cranking up a few more degrees when she spots my shorts.
What can I say? It’s a hot day.
Even hotter when she watches me like this.
Her sister waves a hand my direction. “Avast there, Ian!”
Tess’s eyes go wide, and she purses her lips as though she’s struggling not to scold her. Wren’s smug smile makes me want to know what all she’s heard about me. Clearly, pirates are a theme.
“Ahoy,” I say, keeping my gaze on Tess.
Wren cackles and helps the next person in line, ignoring the withering side-eye Tess shoots her way.
August comes up right in front of me. “Ian, did you see the parade? And the horses? And the fire truck?”
“I missed it, buddy.” I know my limits. Tess told me her mom would be with August at the parade while she and her sister prepared for the festival, cutting my incentive to attend in half.
He slips his hand in mine. “Next year, you have to come and sit with us.”
I glance back to Tess. “Next year, I will.”
“Do you want to?—”
“Thank you for your service.”
It takes me a second to realize an older man in line for pies is talking to me. When I meet his gaze, he salutes.
My good humor for the morning winks out. Why do they always make this assumption, like everyone who’s lost a limb is Lieutenant Dan home from Vietnam? They offer me a moment of respect and recognition I don’t deserve. “Thanks, I crashed my motorcycle” tends to kill their gratitude.
“I didn’t serve,” I say coolly. I was never that selfless.
“Oh.” His gaze drops back to my leg as if he needs to make sure I’ve still got the prosthesis. “Then how’d you lose it?”
He manages to make it sound like negligence, as if I set my old leg down somewhere and forgot about it. As if it was entirely my fault. Which it absolutely was.
I have no desire to talk about one of the worst days of my life with him, but he’s eagerly watching me, waiting for the whole bloody story.
And this is why I stopped wearing shorts in public.
Tess makes a sound of disgust. “Really, Mr. Miller? You’re going to ask him that without even saying hello or asking his name?”
The man looks at her as if she’s speaking nonsense. “It’s a fair question.”
“It’s genuinely not. You’re asking a stranger personal questions. It’s rude.”
I’m used to Tess’s sweet, soft side, but this spitfire? I like her.
He looks around as if searching for back up, but the other people in line don’t make eye contact with him. “Guy lost his leg, it’s natural to ask why. Was it an accident, infection, what?”
Tess frowns harder at his eager fishing attempt.
