“Can I eat in here?” he asks hopefully.
No, Victoria says firmly. “Nope,” I tell him out loud. He grumbles a bit, but does unfold himself from the chair and slouch toward me.
“You know, Dad could handle dinner without me,” he tells me when we get into the kitchen. I hand him the saucepan.
“Well, uncles need a little more help,” I reply lightly. “You do the noodles, I’ll grill the cheese.”
The corner of his lip twitches in response to the joke, and he ceases arguing. Truthfully, I don’t need his help to make dinner and often he is more of a hindrance than anything. But I want to spend time with him. I want him to want to spend time withme. Right now, the only way I can make it happen is by forcing him, and helping prepare dinner has, thus far, been the path of least resistance. At the very least, he’s not hiding in his room, sad and alone.
Our shoulders and arms bump as we work side by side at the stove, Parker’s head ducked as though he’s watching something more fascinating than water boil. I clear my throat.
“So, hey. Next week my schedule will be a little different, so there are going to be days where I can’t get you fromschool.” Pausing, I glance over at Parker, who pretends not to have heard me. “But I talked to Sue down the hall, and she said?—”
“I don’t need a babysitter. I’mten,” he says, as though I’m the biggest idiot around.
“You’re nine,” I remind him. “Almost ten isn’t ten, and if you give me a second to finish, I’ll explain my idea.”
He scowls at me, before dumping the pasta into the saucepan. I take a look at the underside of the grilled cheese, making sure the bread isn’t burning.
“Miss Sue offered to get you from school, because she likes to take walks around that time anyway. She’s going to walk you over to me, and you can hang out in the office and work on homework.”
“Or we can walk back here, and I can do homeworkhereuntil you get home,” he counters. I shake my head.
“Parks, I was born at night, but it wasn’t last night. Are you trying to tell me that you’d do your work instead of playing video games? That you’d eat something other than chips or cookies for dinner? Come on, bud.”
“It’s going to be so boring, though,” he whines, stirring the noodles roughly enough that water splashes onto the cook top, sizzling.
“Careful. Some days might be boring, and I’m sorry. But if you use the time to get your homework done, when we get home you can have all evening free.”
He opens his mouth but closes it again as he considers. “Fine,” he grumbles.
“I could see if Sue would watch you here, some nights,” I offer, disappointed that he’s not more willing to spend time at work with me.
“Yeah,” Parker agrees, perking back up. “Let’s do that.”
“Game nights will be a little more tough,” I admit, and the now-familiar worry uncoils in my stomach and stretches its back.
I’d had two sleepless nights, trying to work through a plan that I could bring to Nico. A plan that wouldn’t make it seem like I was already trying to ask for special treatment or shirk my duties. The day I’d brought it up, he’d sat quietly, brows low over his eyes as though he was listening hard. When I’d finished speaking, he’d pulled the game schedule toward himself and grabbed a pen.We can work something out, he offered, and that was that. All of that worrying for nothing; for a problem solved in less than five minutes.
“Whatever,” Parker replies, because it’s his favorite word. “Noodles are done.”
He goes to take a seat at the table as I drain the hot water and prepare the sauce. I did manage to burn one of the grilled cheese, so I keep that one for myself and slide the perfect one onto a plate for him. I dump a handful of baby carrots onto the plate as well, and try not to feel ashamed of the meal. I need to take a nutrition course.
“Here you go.” I slide his food in front of him and go back for mine, smiling to myself when he says a polite thank-you, lacking of his usual grumbling attitude. He must have learned the manners from Paul, because my sister sure as hell didn’t have any.
I pour a few carrots onto my plate as well, even though they are bloody disgusting. A parenting blog I’ve become a bit obsessed with stressed the importance of not making your kid eat anything you wouldn’t, and I’m taking it as gospel. I can choke down a few carrots for Parker’s sake.
“That’s burned,” he tells me when I pick up my grilled cheese. I shrug.
“I don’t mind. Maybe the charcoal will overpower the taste of carrot.”
He laughs, picking one up and chomping into it dramatically, humming as though it’s the greatest thing he’s ever tasted.
“Yum,” he adds, just in case I missed the direction he was taking that.
“Worse than peas.”
“No way! Green beans are the worst.” He shudders dramatically. “Oh! No, you know what’s the worst?”
