I hurry over, intent on snagging the knife…at least until I realize she knows what she’s doing.
And that the knife is plastic—albeit sharp enough to cut an apple.
“My dad taught me, see?” She cuts one end and lays it flat. Then proceeds to cut around the core in careful, even strokes.
“Wow,” I say. “You’re really good at that.”
“I know.”
I smile, glance over my shoulder.
Rhodes is leaning against the wall, arms and ankles crossed.
“Are you ah-al-lergic to peanut butter?”
Blinking, I turn back to her. “No, I don’t have any allergies.”
“Me neither.” She grabs the jar of peanut butter, grunts as she unscrews the lid. “But Jake can’t eat oranges.”
“Is Jake your friend?”
A nod. “Can you get me a spoon?”
“Sure.” I turn away, looking for the most likely drawer that would house a spoon.
“Here,” Rhodes murmurs, pulling one open.
“Thanks.” I snag a spoon, close the drawer, and bring it back over to her, and two minutes later, she has a cutting board of apple slices smeared with peanut butter and topped with plenty of chocolate chips. “That looks yummy.”
“It is.” A pause. “Want one?”
I accept the slice she holds up, take a bite. “Yum.” I chew and swallow. “Would you like me to pour you a glass of milk?”
“Yes, please.”
But when I go to do that, I find that Rhodes has already filled three cups.
“Thanks, Daddy!” Carefully, she carries the cutting board over to the counter and gets busy eating.
Rhodes snags a slice and pops it into his mouth, nudging a glass of milk toward her. Then one toward me.
“Thanks,” I murmur.
A nod.
We eat and drink, but Chloe chattering away means that it doesn’t get awkward. She tells me about her teacher, Ms. Mika, and more about Jake, who she likes to dig in the sandpit with. Then she shows me her room.
“Whoa,” I say as I stop on the threshold.
“I like pink!” she exclaims, spinning on the furry pink rug…which sits atop the pale pink carpet…which matches the pink comforter and the pink dresser and the glittery pink pain on the walls.
“I see that,” I say lightly.
Which makes Rhodes chuckle.
A tug at my hand has me looking down at her. “Will you show me what’s in your bag?”
I smile. “Sure, pumpkin.”
