Fork lifted halfway to his mouth, he asks, “No?”
“No. I’m not sure I can wrap my arms around you if I need to give you the Heimlich.”
He cuts his pace by a third and is done by the time my waffle with a scoop of vanilla ice cream arrives. It’s not my favorite, but it’s close enough and I thank Arthur profusely.
I drizzle it with syrup, but only because I sense it’ll annoy Grey. I did say I don’t want him to choke, but I never mentioned anything about not wanting to be a little itch that he can’t scratch, at least until he starts cooperating.
Done with breakfast and the newspaper, he sets it and his plate aside. “So, what’s next?”
“After I’m done eating my delicious meal, we’re going on a field trip.”
“Where?”
“It’s a surprise.”
“Why?”
“Because sometimes life throws us a party, only instead of candy in the piñata, we realize we’ve been whacking a wasps’ nest,” I mutter that last part.
He grunts.
“Does that mean you understand or did I just throw you a curveball?”
“Football.”
“Football, what?” I ask, growing increasingly irritated by his single-word side of the conversation.
“I play football. A curveball is a baseball term.”
“Ah, so he does have command of the English language.” If Cateline were a fly on the wall, she’d buzz past and scold me for not teaching through example and demonstrating my manners. But Grey is a particularly tough customer, so I need to pour on the tough love.
Of course, he grunts.
“I don’t care what sports ball we’re talking about, did you catch my meaning?”
Grunt.
“Grunt, grunt, grunt. Okay, Grunt Guy, we’re going to try again. Let’s attempt a civilized and polite conversation. One you’d have in mixed company. For example, say you were seatedat the table with Commissioner Starkowsky, his daughter Elyse, and the officials.”
“I see you did your homework.”
“Read the newspaper article while you used it as a shield.”
“A shield?” he snorts.
Which I take as progress, because it’s not a grunt.
“I was tracking the stocks,” he says.
“In the International News section? Anyway, back to our scenario. You’re at the table with the people you mooned.”
“You forgot Brandon.”
“Okay, he’s here too in this scenario.”
“And you?” he asks.
“Am I here? For our purposes today, let’s say yes. I’m seated at the head of the table, atop a throne,” I say the last part with a theatrical flourish, if only to see whether he’ll break his fast on frowning.
