“Were you born with it?” I asked, before realizing, he probably didn’t want to talk about it, or he would have, without me prodding him for answers.
“No. I was fine until around four or five years ago.”
“Do you miss food, like the foods you could eat back then?”
“I do. . . but I’d probably miss living a little more if I were to choke to death, who knows.” He shrugged off such a serious statement.
I frowned at him, while dissecting my sandwich, wondering if any of it would be safe for him to eat without himchoking to death.
I pulled out the tiniest piece of pepperoni—a piece my teeth had already cut into and ripped apart.
“Open your mouth,” I whispered, moving on my knees to close the small gap between us.
“I don’t eat meat.”
“You’re vegetarian?”
“For the animals.”
“Wow, that’s certainly a dedication to your love for them.” I dropped back, resting my weight against my feet. “Let me guess, you’d like to be a vet?”
“Maybe. . . but I don’t think that will happen. My dad wants me to work with him. . . doing whatever it is he does.”
“But you don’t want to do that?” I asked, eyebrows raised. I didn’t wait for his answer. I didn’t need to; I already knew it. “You should do what makes you happy. A good parent will understand.”
“He isn’t a good parent.” Woodrow’s mood dropped, along with his now slouching shoulders.
I didn’t know how to respond. I could see why Woodrow would have an issue with his father, and sure, the guy gave me the ick, but I couldn’t comment on it. It wasn’t my place.
I placed the pepperoni on my tongue and sucked the flavor free until it tasted of nothing, and then I swallowed.
I lifted one piece of bread from the small chunk I had left of my sandwich, and I searched for something else I could offer him. He’d packed it, layering multiple types of meat on a hummus bed, snuggled in with veggies. I pulled out a carrot—thinly cut. I rolled it in the hummus for a little more flavor.
I placed my sandwich on a napkin at my side and edged forward.
Woodrow stared at the carrot in my fingers as it moved closer to his lips, and he lowered the banana, opening his mouth.
“Is it hard?” he asked, pulling back slightly.
“Nope.” I emphasized the flimsiness with a light shake, and he opened wider for me.
I placed the food on his tongue and gave him space, knowing he’d be hiding the action of him swallowing it any second.
His eyes closed, taking in the flavor, of what, to most people, would be considered bland food. He chewed for what felt like half an eternity before his hand moved to his throat, and he swallowed.
“Was it good?”
“So good,” he repeated my words. “Everything my mother makes for me is overcooked. I don’t know if she does it for my well-being or to spite me.” He laughed, but again, it hurt him, in more ways than one.
“Lots of teenagers have issues with their parents.” I tried to understand, but I couldn’t.
“Yeah. . . hopefully they’ll grow out of it.” He winked at me. He’d have laughed again if he could have.
But he couldn’t. So, I did it for him.
Woodrow’s steel gaze fixed behind me, fascination glowed on his face under the sunlight. I turned in the direction of his gaze. A bunny, cute and fluffy, perched itself at the side of our basket, chewing on the leafy greens of our picnic. I was scared to move; scared in case I’d scare it and it fell to a watery death.
“Move slowly.” Woodrow’s bright smile landed on me, and I felt heat radiate from him.
