Page 151 of Until August
“Here. Try this,” I urged Sage.
Sage looked at it skeptically. “What is it?”
“What does it look like?”
“A burger?” Sage asked.
“Of course, it’s a burger. Kobe beef.”
He took it from my hand and lifted the bun. “But where’s the ketchup?”
“No ketchup. It’s aioli. An emulsion of olive oil and garlic… just try it, would you?”
“Why does the bun look weird?”
“It’s brioche.”
“What’s the white stuff?”
“Cheddar. Just eat the damn thing,” I grumbled.
“Okay. Fine.” He side-eyed me. “But if it tastes like that poo you tried to feed me last week, I’m spitting it out,” he warned.
“I never fed you poo.”
“That’s what it looked like. And it tasted like ass.”
“What the hell? You can’t say words like that.”
He shrugged. “That’s what Dylan said.”
Dylan. Funny how Nicola’s friends had become my friends, too. Worlds colliding. No matter how much I tried not to think about her, there were constant reminders.
Her spare toothbrush next to mine in the holder. Her shampoo and conditioner in my shower. A t-shirt she’d left on the hook of my bathroom door. A paperback on my coffee table.
One night she’d read the sex scenes aloud, and we’d reenacted them.
Last month, I found her black lace panties jammed behind the sofa cushion along with the silk tie she’d blindfolded me with to do a blind tasting.
I threw all her stuff in a box that I jammed into my closet. I kept thinking I should leave it on her doorstep, but two months later, it was still in my closet, collecting dust.
I watched Sage take a bite of the burger and chew, then waited for his opinion. This was what it had come to. Relying on my eight-year-old kid’s verdict of whether my burgers were better than a goddamn Happy Meal.
Sage gave me a thumbs-up and flopped into the driver’s seat, sitting sideways so he could watch me prepare the sauces for today’s menu.
“You can serve this,” he said, taking another big bite. “Gold star.”
“Thanks. Appreciate the support. But it was going on today’s menu whether you liked it or not.”
“Do you think you’ll get a big line today?” he asked, swinging his feet back and forth while he ate. He wore a Santa hat, a red surfing Santa hoodie, and green sweatpants. He looked like one of Santa’s little elves.
A few weeks ago, he hung out in the food truck with me and wrote his Christmas list. It was longer than my arm. But other than a new surfboard that I’d asked Shane to make for him, Sage didn’t ask for toys or anything like that.
Nope. Not my kid. Instead, he asked for the things that could make a grown man cry. Me. I was the grown man.
His list went something like this:
Dear Santa,
