Page 187 of How to Kiss a Hawthorne Brother
Jack nods, and I hurry back up to the line, cutting to the end to grab the things we missed.
When I get back to the table, several of the other dads are chuckling. I narrow my eyes and look at Jack, who has poured at least twelve servings of syrup onto his plate. It’s full to the brim. One more drop, and we’ll have a waterfall of syrup pouring off his plate and onto the table.
“Hey, whoa, that’s a lot of syrup,” I say, lifting the bottle out of Jack’s hands. There is no way he’s going to be able to eat without getting syrup all over everywhere. I slide his plate away.
“Hey!” Jack says. “Those are mine!”
“These are yours now,” I say, moving my plate in front of him. “Let’s see if we can get a normal amount of syrup on them, okay?”
Jack sighs and frowns, but he doesn’t protest as I butter and syrup his pancakes. “There. All set.”
Jack looks at me like I’ve just grown a third head. “Why did you put butter on them? I don’t like butter.”
He doesn’t like butter.
“Jack. You probably won’t even taste the butter. Try a bite.”
“I don’t want to try a bite. I have pancakes with Mommy all the time, and she never puts butter on them because she knows I don’t like butter.”
I look back up to the line which has tripled in size now that more classes are being called up. I can’t go get him more pancakes. But I also can’t take the butter off ofthesepancakes.
“Hey,” a dad says from the other side of Jack. He holds up an empty plate that he pulled out from underneath his own. “Do you mind if I help?”
I hold my hands up. “Please. I clearly need it.”
The man forks Jack’s original pancakes out of the syrup soup they’re swimming in and drops them onto the empty plate. “Here you go, little man,” the guy says, swapping the new plate for Jack’s. “Pancakes, no butter.”
This guy makes it look so easy. I tell myself to calm down. Itiseasy. It’s pancakes. Just breakfast. I have tobreathe.
“Here, I’ll take that,” I say, reaching for the syrup-filled plate. The dad hands it over, and I carefully carry it to the trashcan in the corner.
And I almost make it. Until somebody’s kid runs past me, bumping into me from behind and sending a cascade of syrup down my pant leg and into my shoes. MY FREAKING BUTTERCUPPING SHOES.
I swallow the less polite swear words threatening to erupt and take a slow, even breath. I am a grown man. A CEO of a thriving business. I can handle this.
I lift my foot, hearing the squelch of syrup in my sock.
I cannot handle this.
Back at the table, the hero dad who saved Jack’s pancakes gives me a knowing look. “Divorced?”
It takes me a moment to process his question. Do divorced guys have a certain look? But then I realize he’s assuming I’m divorcedfrom Jack’s mom.And probably swooping in to attend a breakfast when I am not the full-time parent. Because clearly, I do not look like a full-time parent.
“No, I’m just . . .”
I’m what, exactly? I don’t think there’s really a title for hopeful, almost-boyfriends.
“He’s my stairdad,” Jack says in between bites.
“Stepdad?” the dad says.
“Not quite. I’m dating his mom.”
“Ah. You’re a good sport then. Events like these can be tough even for the seasoned pros.”
I nod. “Thanks for your help with the pancakes.”
“No problem,” he says with a chuckle. “I’m Dave.”
