“So, what are we having?” Hank asked when we returned to the kitchen.
After the Sippy Cup Incident, I half expected him to bolt. What he did instead was much more shocking—he retrieved the cup and brought it to me.
“You’ll be looking for this later,” he said. No muss, no fuss.
The last time I’d been accidentally outed as a little, the response had…slightly different. Gage had gone snooping through my room for god knows what and found my paci and training pants. Instead of asking, he took a picture and posted it in the brothers’ group chat—along with an announcement that I’d gotten someone pregnant.
Unfortunately, spontaneous combustion wasn’t real, so I survived the embarrassment of explaining what it really meant. But because that wasn’t humiliating enough, Vaughn called an emergency in-person meeting to discuss boundaries. It included a full infomercial about what being a little entailed.
There was a PowerPoint.
But back in the here and now, Hank seemed unfazed. If he wanted to move on, then so did I. No combustion required.
“Fingers crossed you like it,” I said. “We’re having my version of spanakopita, cucumber and tomato salad in vinaigrette, and pan-fried chicken marinated in Greek yogurt. For dessert, honeyed berries with mint from Sissy’s planters over lemon pound cake.”
Considering I hadn’t planned anything before this afternoon, I was proud of myself for pulling it off.
“You made all thattoday?” Hank sounded impressed, like he meant it.
“I already had the groceries on hand—it was just my dinner. I made extra.”
“When I asked about dinner earlier, I lied a little.”
“Oh yeah? Tell me.”
“My plan was to heat up a frozen pizza. I hate cooking.”
“Ooh no! Fibbing isn’t cool, Daddy.”
Hank chuckled at the nickname but didn’t correct me. That swooning couch would have to be a permanent fixture in my house.
“Is cooking what you did before you moved down here?”
“That was one of my jobs,” I said with a self-deprecating laugh. “Getting a job is the easy part—it’s the staying that’s the problem.”
“Oh yeah? What other jobs have you had?”
Hank leaned against the counter as we chatted. I finished assembling dinner while he asked, “Where are the dishes for the table?”
I pointed, and he got to work.
“Okay,” he said. “Now lay it on me.”
“Let’s see…” I ticked off on my fingers. “I’ve been a dog walker, balloon artist, gallery assistant to the assistant to the receptionist, taffy maker, and process server—but my brother made me quit that one after someone got nasty when I served them divorce papers—birthday clown, bill collector—fired for offering people suggestions on how to get out of it—and most recently, a barista.”
Hank stopped mid-table setting to stare at me.
“What?”
“I can’t even imagine. I’ve had exactly one job my entire life.”
“Yeah, well, not all of us know what we want to do before exiting the womb.”
I turned my back to him, focusing too hard on chopping salad. The cutting board thudded beneath my knife—harder than necessary. I didn’t need to hear his judgment. I was well aware of my flakiness. My handsome, reliable cowboy didn’t need to remind me. I knew. My dad knew. My ridiculously successful brothersdefinitelyknew.
“Hey, sugar,” Hank said, laying a hand on my shoulder. “I didn’t mean anything by it. You’ve tried a lot of things. I’ve done a grand total of one. Maybe the perfect job’s out there for me and I’ll never know.”
His hand was warm. Solid. I forced myself not to lean into it.
