Read: the logic of a five-year-old.
“Are you hungry?” I ask. “I got mac and cheese at the store for you.”
“Yes. Mac and cheese is my favorite.”
I ruffle her hair. “I’ll get started on dinner and you can finish your picture.”
“Maybe I can make a picture you can take to Lollipop for me. I know yours is in your barn, but she needs one with her.”
“I can definitely do that. We can put it in the stall with her.”
“She’ll love it.”
If she doesn’t try to eat it.
Poppy tells me all about her day as I boil the noodles and make her dinner. Is this what being a parent is like? Getting to hear about the things she did at school? About her friends?
Emotions overwhelm me at the thought that this can be my life. How? I don’t know. Presley and I still need to figure out those details.
Right now, things are good between us. Easy. And I want to keep them that way.
Scooping a big spoonful of cheesy noodles into a bowl, I peel an orange and carry everything over to the table.
“Did I do alright?” I ask, setting everything in front of her before going back to the kitchen to get her a cup of milk.
She stabs her fork into the bowl, pulling it out with two noodles on it.
“Something wrong?” I ask.
“It’s not the right kind.”
“It’s mac and cheese.” I look down at the bowl. Did I burn it? It’s probably the one thing that even I can make without screwing up.
She shakes her head. “It’s too cheesy.”
“Too cheesy? But…cheese is in the name.”
She looks at me like I’m an idiot. “But this has too much cheese. I like the other kind.”
“The other kind?”
Jesus. I sound like a parrot, firing everything she says back at her. Pulling out my phone, I find the text from Presley. There in black and white—blue box only.
Fuck.
“Well, they were out of the kind you like.”
I thought I’d be okay getting this kind. I mean, it’s cheesy noodles; how different can they be?
She sighs, resting her chin in her hands. “Can I have something else?”
“I’d say pizza, but that has cheese.”
“I love pizza!” she exclaims, face excited.
“What kind?”
“Cheese.”
