“That you’re doing this work when it’s not your responsibility, you’re not getting paid for it, and you’re doing it on your vacation.”
“Yep.”
“Just want you to know I’m annoyed for you.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. I think we’re finished with this supply thing, though.”
I eye Dom. “I want to kiss you, but I’m going to wait for your consent.”
He smirks.
Frankie runs up from the beach, followed closely by the rest of her family. “We’re starting a bonfire, Daddy!” she screams. “We’re having s’mores for dinner!”
“If by s’mores you mean a well-balanced meal of protein, vegetables, and whole grains, then yes.”
“Yes,” she says, nodding solemnly.
* * *
“The trick is not to put the marshmallows directly in the flame, because then it’ll light on fire and turn black. You kind of have to let it bake down here,” I tell Frankie, who’s currently sitting in my lap, “and let it turn golden brown.”
Frankie follows my directions like a champ. “When it’s black, it’s burned,” she confirms.
“Exactly.”
We’re all gathered around a bonfire that Georgia built for us. She apparently used to make them growing up on Long Island all the time, so like a true teacher, she delegated digging and wood construction and ingredient collection, and we were all set in under half an hour.
No one makes any mention of vegetables, not even Dominic.
“I wish the chocolate could be kind of melty,” he says. “How can we make that happen?”
“Put the chocolate down next to the fire,” Frankie says. “In the graham crackers.”
“But it’ll get sandy.” He wrinkles his nose.
The circle of teachers waits patiently, allowing Frankie to grapple.
“Do we have tin foil?” she asks eventually.
Georgia pulls it out from the bag she brought down to the beach.
Frankie constructs a makeshift oven, shoving some chocolate into foil and setting it next to the fire. No one tells her what will happen.
“Oh no,” she says, when she opens the foil to a gooey mess.
“What else can we try?” I ask her gently.
We go on like this until we all decide we’ve come up with the perfect, ideal s’mores roasting strategy. We spent the rest of the night chatting about nothing and gorging ourselves on sugar, leaning back in the lounge chairs we dragged down to the beach, enjoying the warmth on our feet and the sounds of the ocean just a few feet away.
Frankie eventually falls asleep on my chest. I think there’s melted chocolate from her mouth on my shirt. Her weight feels cozy and snuggly and delightful, and it makes me smile.
“I’m going to head up,” Ben says, standing and taking Gloria’s hand. “Anyone else?”
“We’re coming,” Oliver says. “I’m still kind of hungover from last night.”
Georgia sleepily nods her head.
