Page 48 of Cooking Up My Comeback
How easily my kids are warming up to him and how dangerous that could be if this partnership goes sideways.
“Mom,” Tally appears at my elbow, removing her sunglasses to study Brett with the calculating gaze of someone who’s seen me pick up the pieces before. “Can we talk for a second?”
“Sure, honey. What’s up?”
She glances at Brett, who’s now letting Mason demonstrate his “super ninja fish taco eating technique” while looking like he’s not entirely sure how he ended up in this situation, then back at me. “Is this guy going to be around a lot?”
The question catches me off guard. “He’s my business partner. We’re building the restaurant together.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
Before I can answer, Dad appears with his second-place chili ribbon pinned to his shirt like a badge of honor. “Boys, want to show me your cornhole technique while the adults talk business?”
Brett straightens, suddenly looking like he’s facing a firing squad. “Mr. Bennett, I?—”
“It’s Tom. And relax. I’m just curious about yourhand-eye coordination when it comes to bean bag trajectory.”
“Grandpa’s going to interrogate Brett?” Crew asks, loud enough for half the festival to hear.
“Probably,” Tally mutters.
“It’s not an interrogation,” Dad says with a grin that suggests it absolutely is. “Come on, boys. Let’s see if this contractor knows his way around carnival games.”
They walk away—my boys flanking Brett like they’re escorting him to his doom, Crew probably already explaining the aerodynamics of bean bag trajectory while Mason provides encouraging commentary. Brett trails behind, looking like a man walking to his execution, and I know Dad’s not just judging cornhole skills.
“He seems nice,” Mom says carefully, settling beside me at our folding table.
“He is nice. When he wants to be.”
“The boys like him.”
“They like everyone who pays attention to them.” The words come out sharper than I intended. “Sorry. I’m just...”
“Scared?” Mom finishes gently.
I watch Brett attempt a cornhole throw while both boys shout conflicting advice. The bean bag goes wide, and Brett throws his hands up in defeat with an expression of genuine frustration that makes me want to laugh.The boys rush over to coach him again, completely serious about their instructional duties.
“Yeah,” I admit. “Scared.”
“Of him?”
“Of this.” I gesture at the scene, at my kids treating Brett like he belongs here despite his obvious discomfort with family dynamics, at the way my parents are clearly evaluating him as more than just my business partner. “Of how fast this is happening. Of how much they already trust him.”
“And that’s bad because...?”
“Because what if it doesn’t work out? What if we open the restaurant, and he decides Twin Waves isn’t for him? What if this partnership falls apart, and my kids are left wondering why another man disappeared from their lives?”
The words taste bitter, shaped by three years of watching my kids navigate Chad’s inconsistent presence by promising to come to Crew’s school play and then cancel last minute and the way Mason would ask why Daddy didn’t want to hear about his dinosaur discoveries.
“Amber,” Mom says softly, “Brett isn’t Chad.”
“I know that. But the kids don’t. To them, he’s just another adult who might or might not stick around.”
“Is that really what you’re worried about? Or are you worried about yourself getting attached?”
I don’t answer, because she’s hit too close to themark. Because watching Brett with my boys, seeing how he listens to their ridiculous stories despite clearly being out of his comfort zone, makes something in my chest ache with a want that I’m not ready to acknowledge.
Dad wanders back over with an expression I can’t quite read.
