Page 9 of Nutcracker with Benefits
I spend the entirety of the first movie going back and forth in my mind, trying to convince myself to ask the question but also not wanting to know the answer. Schrödinger's cat: Nash is both all mine and not.
At the end of A Charlie Brown Christmas, the twins and Whitney have a whispered conversation, and before anyone can suggest the next movie, Whitney stands and comes to sit beside me, kids trailing along.
“Auntie Clara, Molly and Ricky have some questions for you,” she says as she props an elbow up on the back of the couch. “Who wants to go first?”
“Me!” Molly says. No surprise, she often leads the charge.
“Okay,” I say, clapping my hands together and leaning my elbows on my knees. “What’s your question?”
“Um. Mom says that you ate a spider.” Molly gazes up at me, her eyes big and round, blue just like her mother’s.
“I did. I ate a spider, and I also ate a cockroach and a cricket and a few other things.” I leave my list of unusual delicacies short because I do not want to explain things like bull testicles and eyeballs to four-year-olds.
“Yeah, but why?” she asks, and her little body sways back and forth while she waits for my answer.
“You know how there’s a lot of different types of food you can eat? Like your dad likes Italian food and your mom likes sushi?”
Molly nods.
“I was in a country where they eat those things just like you eat potato chips.”
“But why?”
Ah, so Molly is in the why phase now. Thankfully I’m saved by Ricky.
“Harry eats crickets.”
I blink at Ricky. “Who’s Harry?”
“Harry’s the snake that lives in our room at school.”
“Ah. Well, if Auntie Clara eats crickets and Harry eats crickets, then maybe crickets are delicious.” I spread my hands and make an exaggerated maybe face.
“But,” Whitney hastens to add, “we don’t eat Harry’s crickets, okay?”
“Right, right. So Harry probably eats his crickets alive?” I ask the kids.
They both nod.
“Well, Auntie Clara says you should only eat crickets when they’ve been cooked properly by an adult, okay? No stealing Harry’s snacks.”
“Gee, thanks,” Whitney adds dryly. “Someday, they’re going to ask me to cook crickets for them.”
“Sorry,” I say, not at all sorry. I prop my elbow on my knee and my chin on my hand.
She smirks at me. “Just wait for the next question. We’ve been having some conversations about sexuality, so brace yourself.” She turns back to her children. “Ricky, what is your question for Auntie Clara?”
Ricky grips my knee, getting up close to me. “Mom and Dad say that Grandpa is a bicycle.”
I quickly uncurl my hand to try to hide my smile. I don’t want Ricky to think I’m laughing at him, but holy shit that’s hysterical. The rest of the room struggles to hold their laughter, too. Fritz, in the corner, trying to build one of Molly’s Christmas gifts, outright chortles, and the couch shakes underneath me, Uncle D trying to hold back his laughter.
Whitney, with the patience of a saint, gently corrects Ricky. “He’s bisexual, sweetie.”
“Bicycle,” Ricky repeats.
I glance over at Nash, whose eyes are twinkling with mirth.
“Yes,” I say, turning my attention back to my very serious nephew. “Grandpa is bisexual.”
