“Dad?Dad!Are you okay?”
Charlie reaches us first, followed closely by Eddie, Tank, and Butch.
Lana’s taking a leisurely stroll toward us, loaded down with at least two cakes and a bag of candy floss.
“We’re fine,” I tell my boys. “There was, erm, a mishap with a mallet.”
“Basically your dad isn’t allowed to ever help anyone in town split firewood now,” Bea says.
She’s still giggling.
It’s beautiful.
Music.
“Go and help your mother,” I say to the boys as Bea steps around Pinky to head toward the fishbowl disaster.
I should help.
But the moment I take my own step in that direction, Butch and Tank block me.
“Glass,” Tank says.
“Emotional people,” Butch says.
“Time to go.”
Of course.
And they’re correct.
Naturally.
We’ve begun to attract a crowd.
“Bea—” I start, but my entire security team gives me a look that tells me I’m fighting a losing battle.
To them, she’s a dalliance.
A distraction.
And she’s managing herself without issue, navigating the broken glass and grabbing a fish and chatting amicably with the rest of the carnival goers who are converging on the tent to help.
I am not needed.
Worse, I am likely a distraction. And the cause of the mayhem.
That seems to be the story of my life sinceIn the Weeds.
One would think I should be accustomed to it by now.
She doesn’t glance our way as we leave.
And that makes me far sadder than it should.
17
WE ARE NEVER EVER PRETENDING TO GET BACK TOGETHER
