Page 53 of One Small Spark
“Yeah. He just needs a snack.” It’s not an emergency, but it’s still something I would have had at the front of my mind if it weren’t for the six-foot-three distraction at my side. Good Wren would have caught the downward trend in his blood sugar levels before the alarm even sounded. Bad Wren’s been too busy staring into deep brown eyes to calculate how long August’s been riding his bike.
“‘Son of a bus?’” Callahan repeats, amusement layering his voice.
“Shut it. I’m trying to be a good influence on my nephew.” Casual swearing used to be one of my favorite outlets for colorful self-expression before he came along.
“Did you guys see me?” August rides off the path and straight into the grass, stopping just before he reaches the tote bag I’ve got at my feet. “I rode and rode.”
“You did awesome. It’s time for a snack, though.”
“Okay.” He unbuckles his helmet and drops it in the grass before flopping down between Callahan and me. “What did you bring?”
I pull the insulated lunchbox from my tote bag, spilling my yarn, crochet hook, and weirdo work in progress across the blanket in the process. August isn’t the only one who had grand plans for our afternoon in the park. I hand him a juice box and a wrapped sandwich. It won’t take much to counteract his activity out here, but he needs a little something.
He happily eats the food, still watching the bikers on the BMX trail. Or “pump track,” I guess it’s called. I pop open a small bag of spicy corn chips and tip it Callahan’s way.
He sits straighter so he can take one. “Thanks.”
“Ian said I can try the track as soon as I’m done with training wheels.” August nods over his plans for world domination by way of unfettered bicycling.
“It won’t be long now,” Callahan tells him.
August grins wider. “I’ll ride so fast when they’re gone.”
“Is it hard to learn?” I ask Callahan. “The pump track, I mean. Is it safe for little guys to ride it?”
Most of the kids in there look well out of elementary school.
August shoots me a wounded look. “I’m not so little.”
I slip an arm around him for a quick hug. “I know, buddy.”
“There are informal times for beginners to ride the track every week,” Callahan says. “As long as he goes when it’s not busy, he’ll be fine.”
“Mama wants me to get a helmet that covers my whole face!” August seems thrilled by this step up in protective gear. I bet my sister’s less enthusiastic. Or rather, ready to enthusiastically cocoon him in bubble wrap.
“That’s not a bad idea,” Callahan says. “Maybe some gloves and knee pads, too.”
“Yeah.” August’s gone all dreamy, clearly zoning out imagining himself kitted up to tackle the track. “Can I go watch them ride?”
I check the app on his phone. The little line indicating his blood glucose levels has stopped its downward trend. “Sure. Don’t go inside the fence, though. Sit on the bench outside to watch.”
“Okay!” He scrambles up, finishing the last bite of his sandwich before trotting over to the bench.
Callahan watches me with a wry smile. Some might even call it a smirk. I don’t hate it as much as I used to.
“What?” I ask.
“You’re worried about him.”
I roll my eyes. “If this is a reference to me poking fun at your grave concerns over my ability to get home the other night, it’s totally off base. It’s not like I asked him to text me when he gets to the bench.”
“It’s sweet.”
“Sweet. Yuck.” Going to ignore how those words in Callahan’s mouth make my stomach dip. “It’s normal to worry at least a little over the people you…”
The rest of that sentence dies out on my tongue.Care about.I can’t connect those words between Callahan and me right here in the middle of this park. Even if my traitorous gaze goes straight to his left arm, currently covered by—wonder of wonders—a red flannel shirt.
“He’s diabetic,” I say instead of finishing my thought. “So there’s extra stuff to think about beyond the usual little kid scrapes and tumbles.”
