Page 50 of The Fix-Up

“Migraine,” he muttered. “I took something for it. Just waiting for it to kick in.”

“Oh.” I shuffled over to the counter and pulled the bread from the top of the refrigerator. “Will the light above the stove bother you? I need to make Oliver’s lunch.”

“It’s fine.”

The silence overwhelmed me as I worked on Oliver’s PB&J. I was not good at silence. I worried about what other people were thinking about me. It was best not to let them think about that too much.

I turned. “Is there anything I can do?”

He looked up and a corner of his mouth lifted. “You can put that knife down, for one.”

Knife? But there it was in the hand I was waving in the air—a butter knife loaded with peanut butter. “Oh.”

“Yeah. Oh.” He squinted at me with one eye. “I’m worried you’ll actually use it on me.”

I sniffed and put the knife down. “Please. If I were going to use a weapon on you, it would not be a puny butter knife. I watch a lot of true crime documentaries. I keep a list of tips. In case I need to make someone disappear. I’ve always thought those shows were part ‘how-to’ videos. I mean, if I were a budding murderer, I could get great practical tips for not getting caught. Like this one guy in Alaska would?—”

He held up a hand and I shut my mouth. “Can we talk about murder training on another day, please?”

“Right. Sure.”

“Thanks,” he muttered, wincing as he turned his head.

I had a sudden desire to rub his back or smooth his hair down or give him a hug or…do something to make him feel better. So, I filled up a glass with water and set it next to him. “You should stay hydrated.”

He stared at the glass for a long moment before looking up at me, his expression unreadable. “Thanks.”

“No problem.” I turned back to the counter.

Oliver practically flew into the kitchen, such was his Valentine’s Day high. “Mommy, I made this for you.”

He held up a bright-pink piece of construction paper that looked like someone had gone to town on it with scissors and enthusiasm.

“It’s a heart. Mrs. Sullivan let me cut it out all byed myself and see what I wrote?” He pointed in the center where he’d carefully writtenI love you, Mommyin his oversized scrawl.

“I love it.” I snagged him under his arms and picked him up to place kisses all over his face. He giggled and pretended to be “grossed out” but his arms and legs wrapped around me like a baby koala.

“Mommy, put me down,” he managed to get out between bouts of laughter. “I gots to give Mr. Dalton his Balentine, too.”

I pulled back enough to look down at him. “You made one for Mr. Dalton?”

“He needed a card too, silly. It’s Balentine Day.” After peeking at Gil over my shoulder, he whisper-yelled, “Do you think he’ll like it?”

“He better or I’ll beat him up.”

His eyes grew about fourteen sizes. “You could beat him up?”

“Are you kidding? For you, kid, I’d beat up a whole army.” After placing a last kiss on his cheek, I set him down. “Go on and give it to him, sweets. We have to get going.”

When Oliver turned his back, I held up the knife and shot Gil a look—mostly in jest. Mostly. With a tiny nod, he acknowledged my threat. I turned around to finish making Oliver’s lunch. And to hide my grin.

I couldn’t quite make out their conversation, but Oliver’s giggles made me like Gil Dalton a tiny bit more. Maybe Sunny was right. Gil and I could be friends, and I’d win him over and he’d stop mentioning anything about selling and the?—

“Did you get Mommy a Balentine’s?” Oliver asked.

I whipped around. “Oh, no, Oliver. That’s fine. I don’t need a?—”

“She got you one,” he said, talking over me.

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