Page 48 of About That Night

“What’s that?” he asks Conway, pointing to the tabasco. Conway has just squirted some on a spoon and put it straight in his mouth, like it’s a spoonful of ice cream.

“Hot sauce. It’s spicy.”

“Can I have that in my juice?”

“How about you try it first?” I say, reaching for the bottle. I am one hundred percent certain he won’t like it. But my parents always told me what I would and wouldn’t like, restricting my access to just about everything, and all it did was make me sneak around as a teenager. I’m hoping if I allow Josiah to form his own opinions under controlled circumstances, he’ll never feel like he has to run wild.

I squeeze a microdrop onto Josiah’s finger, and he puts it in his mouth. He instantly makes a face, his mouth contorted.

Nevaeh laughs. “Too spicy?”

“I like it,” he insists, even as his eyes are watering.

Maybe he wants to impress Conway, because he definitely does not like it. When Hank hands me a water to give him, Josiah sucks it down with loud slurping.

Conway passes around the cocktails. Parker sips it. “Holy crap, this is so good. It’s…briney.”

Hank sips his and rolls it around on his tongue before swallowing. “Exactly. Dang. Good job, bro.”

Nevaeh, on the other hand, quietly sets hers back down after taking the smallest of sips. I give her a look of amusement. She shrugs lightly.

“Are you going to try the oysters too?” I ask my son.

He nods stoically.

Hank goes over the variations of the oysters. “These are Gulf oysters, so they’re plump.”

Josiah giggles.

“What?” I ask him, bouncing him a little on my hip.

“Plump,” he says, and falls against my chest laughing.

Hank laughs too. “That is kind of a funny word, isn’t it? These plump oysters…” he waits for a reaction from Josiah, and he gets one.

Josiah is giving a deep belly chuckle that has me laughing too. “You’re so silly,” I tell him.

“He’s silly,” he says, pointing at Hank. “Hank is silly crazy.”

Now Hank is laughing. “Silly crazy is probably the greatest description anyone has ever given of me.”

I laugh too, and he looks over at me. We smile at each other.

My stomach swoops.

Something happens when we lock eyes. His eyes darken. His jaw tenses.

I feel heat in my cheeks, my neck, my inner thighs.

His laughter dies out.

I quickly turn, flustered, and reach out for an oyster. “What kind is this?” I ask, brightly.

“Oysters Rockefeller.” He gestures to the arrangement he’s made of the various presentations of oysters. “This here is the trifecta of oysters. Baked, broiled, and raw. The power of three.”

I eye them a little uncertainly. I gag on the raw oyster. The baked one seems to linger in my mouth. I chug some water while everyone else seems to be enjoying the oysters immensely.

“Try the last one,” Hank says, lifting the broiled oyster to my face.

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