“Very yucky?—”
Hearing Grey use that word makes me laugh before he finishes.
The laugh that comes from his chest cranks like a rusty machine starting up after a long year in the rain. Sonny giggles.
Grey says, “It’s like eating one of my football cleats after it’s seen a season on the field.”
“Glad I’m done eating because this was delicious, unlike, at least from your description, lutefisk.”
“You can thank me for making it.”
“If you get to make an official decree, does that mean I do too?” I ask.
Grey tips his head from side to side.
“Everyone gets ice cream for dessert.”
Sonny cheers.
Grey says, “On Fridays only.”
“And Mondays.”
“Deal.”
We sit on the back deck and eat bowls of vanilla fudge swirl. Sonny takes his with rainbow sprinkles and focuses on getting each bite evenly coated. Grey tossed some fresh berries in his.
In a low voice, I ask, “Why’d you do this?”
“Do what?” he asks, taking a bite.
“Bring me here?”
“I already told you, but it’s also because it’s where I live. You’re supposed to coach me up on living right. We’re doing that.”
“I happen to know that football players like you have a lot going on.”
“I happen to know that I’m not great at communicating, but am working on it.”
“So, you admit that you’re an idiot?” In movies, I’ve seen women try to push the guy away by pretending they don’t like him. The words fell out of my mouth. Maybe to protect myself? But it feels wrong. Dishonest. Stupid. And I know that if I try to push Grey away, my magnetism to him will only grow in an unkind twist of fate.
His face pinches and he presses his hand to his chest like he’s been struck by an arrow. “Ouch. But if you recall, you did make the first and second rules of the Marriage of Convenience Club very clear.”
“But this is real life, not a club.” All the same, my heart tugs so strongly for these two people—one big, one small. One protecting himself at all costs, the other born into a family whose story I don’t know exactly, but would be painful if he weren’t so young.
“Life etiquette lesson. Tell your wife that you have a kid.”
“What if I was afraid you’d?—?”
“Leave?” I steal the last bite of ice cream from Grey’s bowl. “Sorry, not sorry. You’re stuck with me for the next twenty-one days.”
“And after that?”
“We’ll see, but I suggest if you want to pass the Blancbourg program, you start talking more...and singing. I like that too.” I can’t be too mad, because a family is what I’ve wanted more than anything, and it seems that I may have got one in a really roundabout way.
Sonny, who somehow got the vanilla portion of the ice cream into his mouth but not the chocolate, clobbers us both with a sticky-fingered hug.
Full of energy, he bounces up and down. We head to the basement, where Grey has a playroom set up. Once we’ve played cars and trucks, which involves the three of us on hands and knees, pretending to be talking vehicles, he’s finally out of gas.
