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But he pops it into his mouth.
I make a face, and Shiloh giggles.
It’s the first time I’ve heard him do that.
It’s a small sound. Bright and hiccuppy, like it surprised him too. He claps a sticky hand over his mouth, eyes wide, as if he’s not sure he’s allowed to.
My heart does something funny. Something that squeezes and then opens up, like a fist I didn’t know I was making.
I haven’t made anyone laugh in a long time. The last year with Grandpa, I mostly made soup and kept track of pills. Then I’d sit beside his bed reading Louis L’Amour westerns out loud in a voice that got quieter every week.
Before I can think too hard about it, I pick up my phone.
Me: Your son just ate a blueberry dipped in ketchup.
Maverick: Why did you let him do that?
My mouth drops open.
Me: Let him?
Me: Sir, I have known this child for four days.
Me: I do not have sufficient political capital to prevent fruit-related atrocities.
The dots appear.
Maverick: Fair.
Maverick: Give it a week.
I look across the counter at Shiloh. He’s watching me, chin propped on one fist, ketchup on his cheek.
I smile. “Your daddy thinks I’ll have you whipped into shape by next week.”
His little nose wrinkles. “Daddy doesn’t say whipped.”
I blink. “Good to know.”
“He says shit.”
I choke on absolutely nothing.
From the stove, Dottie cackles, so hard she has to grip the edge of the counter with one hand and keep stirring with the other.
I grab my phone.
Me: We need to discuss your vocabulary around the child.
This time Maverick calls.
The phone lights up and vibrates in my hand, and I nearly drop it into the ketchup.
I stare at his name on the screen.
We’ve never spoken.
Not once.
