“No, Pops. No bacon today.”
If I did give him bacon, he would just complain that it’s turkey bacon instead ofrealbacon.
“Don’t forget you have rehab today,” I add as I scoop a forkful of pancake into my mouth.
“I know. I have heart disease, not dementia.”
“Hey now, no need to get so feisty.”
Pops’ nose wrinkles. “Did you put sand in these pancakes?”
I roll my head back and forth on my shoulders, praying for patience. “Why would I put sand in the pancakes?”
Pops stabs at his plate with the fork like he’s looking for proof. “Well, I have no idea now, do I? But they taste like sand.”
I take another bite of pancake. “They taste fine to me.”
He makes a face, chewing with exaggerated misery. “Maybe it’s an acquired taste.”
“For pancakes?”
“For these birdseed pancakes.”
“You’re an acquired taste,” I mumble under my breath.
The screen door screeches open, and for once I’m grateful to see my brother.
“Look, Pops. Wes is here,“ I say with exaggerated brightness.
“I already told ya it was my heart that was the problem. My eyes are just fine. I can see Wes is here.”
I let out a low growl and skewer Wes with a look that’s sharp enough to draw blood. He pauses just inside the door, taking in the standoff at the table.
“You okay?” he asks.
“I’m starting to regret volunteering to help with him,” I say, pointing at Pops with my fork.
Pops just chuckles, mustache twitching away as he shovels another bite into his mouth.
“Pops, stop giving her such a hard time, would ya?” Wes says, readjusting his hat.
“Maybe I just want her to make herself more scarce, so I can eat a Little Debbie cake.”
I groan, massaging my temples.
Wes’ lips tug up at the corner. “I’ll tell Sawyer you need a night out with the girls.”
I try not to feel disappointed that if it’s a night out with the girls, then I can’t invite Tripp. But it’ll be nice to hang out with Sawyer and Allie.
“You gonna babysit him for me?” I ask, narrowing my eyes when Pops starts to protest.
“I’m sure there’s some game we can watch together. Right, Pops?”
He grumbles something unintelligible, which I ignore.
“I’m gonna go feed someone who appreciates it,“ I say, ready to get my regular morning breather from Pops’ attitude by feeding Winston.
“He’s a pig. He’ll eat anything.”
