Mrs. Chen cackled again from the porch, the sound as genuine as ever. “Take her home, Theodore, before she decides to saddle poor Cuddles properly.”
“Are you sure you’re okay?” I asked.
“We’ll talk more later,” she said, waving us off with forced cheer. “My appointment isn’t for another couple of weeks. Plenty of time for conversations.”
We walked back across the street, Debbie chattering about how Cuddles would make the best horse in the whole world if only she had a dog-sized saddle. Once inside, I kicked off my shoes and padded into the kitchen, opening the refrigerator and staring at its pathetic contents with growing despair. I’d put off grocery shopping all week, telling myself I’d get to it eventually, and now “eventually” had arrived with a vengeance.
Half a carton of milk that was probably questionable.
Three eggs.
A sad-looking apple that had seen better days.
Some leftover takeout that I couldn’t quite remember ordering.
And in the back, a package of hot dogs that had been there so long they’d probably achieved consciousness.
“Daddy, I’m hungry,” Debbie announced, climbing onto her step stool to peer into the refrigerator beside me. “What’s for dinner?”
“That, my little monster, is an excellent question.” I moved aside a container of something that might have once been yogurt. “How do you feel about . . . creative cuisine?”
“What’s . . . creative cuisine?” she asked, sounding out the words like they tasted funny on her tongue.
“It’s when Daddy has no idea what we’re eating either.”
She giggled.
I opened the pantry, hoping for inspiration.
A box of stale crackers.
Half a bag of pasta with no sauce.
A can of green beans that had been there since we moved in.
And shoved into the back corner, a jar of peanut butter that would probably have to serve as our protein source.
“We could have peanut butter pasta,” I said weakly.
Debbie wrinkled her nose. “That sounds gross.”
“You’re right. It sounds really gross.” I closed the pantry door and leaned against it in defeat. “Looks like we’re going to the grocery store, kiddo.”
“But I don’t want to go to the store,” she whined. “I want to stay home and play with Sir Hornsworth.”
“Well, Sir Hornsworth is going to have to come with us, because unless he can magically produce food from thin air, we’re all going to starve.”
I was mentally preparing myself for the ordeal of grocery shopping with a tired, hungry five-year-old who was growing crankier by the moment when my phone buzzed against the kitchen counter.
The screen lit up with Jeremiah’s name, and my heart did a backflip that would’ve made Simone Biles applaud.
Postie: Hey. It’s me. Jer. What are you two up to?
I stared at the message and chuckled. Who announces themselves in a text? Surely he knew I had him programmed in by now. It wassoJeremiah . . . and so damned adorable.
My thumb hovered over the keyboard.
What was I supposed to say?
