“No, her culinary brilliance is her egg crackers,” Ethan answered for me.
“Egg crackers?” Merry asked my kid.
“She’ll make it for you tomorrow,” Ethan offered my breakfast services on a mutter, shoving hash browns in his face. Still chewing, he finished, “It’s her specialty.”
I pulled myself together and announced, “It’s gross.”
My kid looked at me. “You’d think that way. You’re a chick. It’s dude food.”
Dude food.
My son was funny.
I grinned at his funny.
But I said, “Whatever.”
Ethan looked to Merry. “Since Mom’s on lates, so she can go back to bed and crash, can you take me to school?”
Oh shit.
Even if it was his choice (or more aptly, demand), we were up in Merry’s space and in his face.
We didn’t need to be crashing in on his life too.
“Yeah,” Merry answered unhesitatingly, and looked at me. “Days off tomorrow and Sunday?”
I nodded.
Merry nodded back and turned his attention to his food.
“We gonna have my birthday party here, or we gonna move it to Gram’s?” Ethan asked.
Shit. His birthday was next week. And the party invites had gone to school with Ethan three weeks ago. They stated the party was at my pad.
But we weren’t at my pad.
Fuck.
“You can have it here,” Merry said.
“We’ll talk to your gram,” I said at the same time.
Merry looked at me. “When is it?”
“Next Saturday.”
Merry looked at Ethan. “Thought your birthday was Wednesday, bud.”
Ethan beamed at Merry because he remembered his birthday.
Since he was busy beaming, I answered for him, “Birthday’s Wednesday. Party’s Saturday.”
Merry, eyes to me, asked, “Feb’s got you scheduled off next Wednesday, yeah?”
I nodded.
“Your mom?” he went on.
I nodded again.
“Right, then I’ll make reservations at Swank’s.”
Ethan’s voice was pitched high when he asked, “Say what?”
Shit.
I hadn’t talked with Ethan about Swank’s yet.
Then again, I hadn’t expected Merry and me to make it far enough to get to Swank’s without me fucking things up in some way.
But here we were.
Thankfully.
“It’s a nice restaurant, kid,” I said quickly. “Steaks and—”
“I know what it is!” Ethan cried excitedly. “Brendon’s parents take them there New Year’s Eve every year. He says you can cut the steaks with your fork.” My son looked to my man. “You’re takin’ us there?”
Merry was grinning at him. “You want that, yeah.”
“I want it!” Ethan practically yelled, and looked at me. “This is so cool. I can’t wait to tell the guys. Brendon is a good guy, but he can also have a stick up his butt ’cause his folks are loaded. He’s always talking about stuff that Teddy and Everest and me’ll never do ’cause Teddy lives in a double-wide and Everest’s dad is a douche. I’m still, like, top of the heap because my mom doesn’t make me eat broccoli. But Brendon’s breathin’ at my neck ’cause he’s got a cable premium package and Netflix and Amazon Instant Video and Hulu. This’ll put me over the top. Way over the top now since my mom’s boyfriend is a badass cop with a killer SUV who lets me hang at the station and takes us for steaks you can cut with a fork. So this…is…awesome.”
I didn’t know whether to be thrilled to my soul my son was so happy or scared out of my mind that I would undoubtedly someday soon do something to fuck everything up with Merry and me, considering Ethan was in this deep with what Merry and me meant to his place in the middle-school-boy hierarchy.
Before I could make up my mind, Merry got right in there and made it worse.
“Even fearin’ spontaneous combustion, bud, you should know I got Netflix and Hulu. I also got the premium package that includes NFL Sunday Ticket.”
Ethan’s eyes went huge and he breathed, “NFL Sunday Ticket?”
“Yep,” Merry confirmed.
Breakfast forgotten, slowly, my kid swung his eyes my way.
Yeah, Merry just made it worse.
“Eat,” I ordered. “You’ll need as much fuel as you can get to rub it in to your friends how awesome you got it. But, just warnin’ you, I’ve been reconsiderin’ your diet. That might not mean broccoli, but I see vegetables in your future.” I looked to Merry. “That means yours too.”
“Mom!” Ethan cried.
“I like vegetables,” Merry muttered, and went back to his plate.
Ethan immediately stopped bitching and turned contemplative eyes to Merry.
At least there was that. I didn’t know if Merry’s proclamation that he liked vegetables would hold sway when Ethan was actually confronted with the real article. But at least it made him think.
“Eat,” I repeated my order. “Then you gotta wash up, get your shoes on, and get your stuff so you guys aren’t late.”
They ate, both my boys leaning against opposite counters in the kitchen of my boyfriend-of-two-weeks’ house where we were currently living.
Merry finished first and helped me do the dishes.
Ethan finished next, rinsed his own plate (the plastic kind you got in those sets at Target that cost nearly nothing, looked like shit, and felt like you were only one step up from eating off paper), and put it in the dishwasher.