“Don’t thank me. You deserve better than that. Not only is this a phenomenal idea, but it’s also an excellent business plan—whoever decides to invest will be better off for it.”
“So, in your professional opinion, does it feel… doable?” I ask, my hesitant optimism obvious.
“Yes, absolutely. But don’t you mean Camp Can-doable?” Bo laughs from the back of his throat, standing from his chair and stretching. He seems to always wear a knitted sweater and dark jeans or trousers when he’s working. He’s always dressed sharply, even though I’ve never seen him pick up a video call. I have the urge to press my face against each of the sweaters that he seems to have stock in and test them for their softness.
“Really?” I sigh out, huffing out a weak laugh as I follow him toward the kitchen.
“Hey, I have a god-givenrightto make dad jokes now,” he says, his head in the fridge.
“Why do I have the feeling you always have?”
He shuts the fridge, his lips pushed out to the side as he looks at me, an idea sparked behind his curious, hazel eyes. “Do you have lunch plans today? With Sarah?”
“Nope,” I pop thep.“Why?”
“There’s nothing in here I want. Want to grab lunch with me?”
“Ooh, can we get burgers? I’ve been really craving ketchup.”
“Just the ketchup?” Bo asks over his shoulder, walking down the hall toward his bedroom.
“Yes. In a cup, preferably,” I answer as he comes back into view holding a small box of cards.
“Bringing these, since we skipped last night.” He stops still. “Did you say in a cup?”
“Hey!” I say defensively, clasping two protective hands over my tummy. “They’ll hear you! Don’t mock them.”
Bo bends at the waist, a lopsided grin in full effect. “Kid, tell your mom you want ice cream or pineapple juice, or hell, pickles. Ketchup is aweirdchoice.” He stands straight and brushes past me, heading toward the front of the house. I follow, playing up my offence, my mouth open and a hand clasped over my chest.
“How rude!” I exclaim, tugging on my winter boots. Bo holds up my jacket for me, and I slip my arms inside. “The first time you talk to them, and you decide to food-shame them?”
“It’s not the first time,” Bo says, grabbing his keys from the wall and throwing open the front door.
It’s not until I buckle myself into his passenger seat that he’s near enough for me to respond. “What do you mean? When else have you talked to them?”
“When you fell asleep watchingLord of the Rings.I had to tell all my fun facts and trivia tosomeone.Plus, once the movie ended, I needed to explain to them why they might feel a little… jostled.”
I stare at him absently.
“How do you think you got to your bed?” he asks, his eyes narrowed.
“I assumed I just half sleepwalked.”
“No, you were out cold,” Bo says, turning the car on.
“You carried me to bed?” I ask.
“Yeah,” he says, putting his arm behind my headrest to look over his shoulder as he backs out of the driveway. “Sorry, is that weird? I did try to wake you.”
“No.” I swallow, admiring the sharp line of his jaw as he keeps his eyes locked on the street behind us. “That’s fine.”
A few minutes pass as we drive in silence, other than the radio commercials. We both sing along to one jingle in sequence, starting and stopping at the same time without acknowledging each other.
“We’ve passed likeeveryburger chain,” I point out ten minutes into our drive.
“Please. You think I’d take the mother of my child to a McDonald’sfor a celebratory lunch?” He tuts. “C’mon, have more faith in me than that.”
“Celebratory?” I ask. “What are we celebrating?”
