“Collin Wheaton is a man’s man. He worked on cars for a living, rebuilds classic models as a hobby, and curses like a sailor. His excuse is that he spent some time in the Navy, but herarely swears in front of my mom, which makes him a gentleman, too. He was a good example to all of us boys.”
My heart warms. I like knowing that Braxton admires those things about his father. That he’s had that type of role model in his life, one he looks up to.
My mind wanders to the last thing on his list. “What about the dog poop? You don’t want it making your neighborhood looking gross or what?” I guess with a shrug.
“Nah, that’s not why. The old man who is renting the place—his name’s Martin—isn’t physically able to take his dog for walks, so he lets it out in the front yard to do its business and get its energy out. The yard is gated, of course, so it can’t get out or anything. Anyway, a few months back, I overheard his landlord—who’s a real creep—threatening that if he doesn’t keep the dog crap off the grass, he’ll evict him.”
“But he’s not physically able to do it?” I ask.
“He tried. I saw him fall on his face once trying to clean up after her. So I asked if I could help. I can’t walk the thing since it’s a yappy Chihuahua that hates me, so I basically just go over there with a garden shovel and scoop it all over to the dirt.”
I consider that for a moment, amused by the way a story involving dog crap could give me the feels. But it does. Oh, how it does. “That’s quite the sacrifice.”
He shrugs. “Takes two minutes, tops. But it means the world to Martin and Muffy.”
“Muffy?” I repeat.
“The dog.”
I grin. “I bet it does.”
Before I know it, we’re pulling into the parking lot of what looks to be a meal distribution center. We follow the instructions on the date card and enter a kitchen where we’re greeted by a pair of professional chefs with white coats and hats to prove it.
“I’m Gertrude,” says the pleasantly plump woman in a thick accent.
The gray-haired man beside her speaks next. “And I’m Gill. Tonight, we’ll be cooking a delicious meal for ye all by ourselves.”
But the woman at his side taps his arm. “No, dear, we’renotthe only chefs for the night.”
“No?” Gill pulls a theatrically horrified expression.
“Remember? Two of the courses will be prepared by…” Gertrude drops off there and nods in our direction.
Gill begins wringing his long, gray goatee with both hands in turn. “Butwe’rethe professionals. Ye don’t mean to saythey’regoing to…”
“Idomean that.”
Gill shakes his head in protest. “They can’t…”
“But theymust.They must do part of the work to earn their keep.”Gertrude points her chin toward me. “Ye with the red hair.”
I laugh a little. “Yes?”
“Come.” She leads me to a covered table behind them. With the prompt of two sharp snaps, Gill hurries over, grips the dangling edges of the tablecloth, and yanks it off with a flourish. Seven brown paper bags are spread evenly on top.
“Pick a bag, you wee little thing,” Gill says. “Whatever’s inside, it’ll be yer job to prepare it.”
Braxton chuckles softly, resting a hand on the small of my back to assure me I’m not alone.
I narrow my gaze on the smallest bag in the bunch.
Gill follows my gaze. “She wants the runt of the litter because sheisone.”
Now, I join in on the laughter as Braxton chuckles again.
“Yes,” I confirm. “I’d like that one, please.”
Gill’s shoulders drop. “Iwanted to make that one. Fine, fine. What willbig boyover here pick, eh? Ye with yer scarred-up hands and yer beefy arms.”
