Page 8 of Gotta Have Mistletoe
I try not to wince at the misshapen pastries. Maybe if I act happy about it, he’ll be happy about it.
And I want Max to be happy. Kid’s been through enough.
His eyes immediately narrow. I don’t blame him.
He peers at the food, then grabs his fork and gives it an experimental tap, like he’s some archaeologist examining some object that nobody’s seen in three thousand years.
“Are we having dessert for dinner?”
“Does that sound like me?”
“You seem different.”
I smile guiltily.
I should have handled the situation with Mr. Brenner better. Climbing down the ladder when the stampede started would have been wise, for instance, and embarrassingly, I was as distracted by the king as everyone else.
I wince. I hope he didn’t think I was some fawning fan. Reckon I looked at him too long, wanted to keep talking to him too much. No wonder his security had to pull him away.
“We’re having an English meal,” I tell Max. “From one of your Papa’s cookbooks.”
“Cool.”
I lean closer and whisper conspiratorially. “I made snickerdoodles!”
Max’s eyes widen, and maybe he’s going to ask me just how I’ve had time to do this. Instead, he raises his arms into the air. “Yay!”
I grin at his happy expression.
Max takes his fork, digs into the pastry and the meat beneath, then puts it into his mouth.
I hold my breath.
He scrunches his eyes, then swallows. He smiles at me, but I know him too well to be fooled.
I take a bite of the food. Salt, I should have added salt to the pastry and the meat. Now the meat has too much, and the pastry... well, that tastes just like rubber. Unsalted rubber. I need to chew a lot, and I let out an embarrassed laugh. “Guess your Papa still wins the cooking awards.”
If the food wasn’t cooked, I would take it away. It is cooked, and thankfully not burned... but it don’t taste good, that’s for sure. The pastry is tough, the meat is bland.
“You know, Dad,” Max says. “I don’t think I’m going to be hungry after dinner. I can have dessert at school.”
I sigh. “That bad, huh?”
My gaze swerves to Dean’s smiling picture.
I can do this.
I can be a good father.
“Don’t worry, Dad. This has protein.”
“You know about protein?”
“I know about a lot of things,” Max says, jutting out his chin in the way he sometimes does when I get melancholic. “The more protein I have, the more I’ll grow. That’s what Tyler’s older brother says.”
“Tyler’s older brother is correct.”
Max smiles at me happily.
