Page 30 of Daddy's Muse
“It sounds great, but why is it called monkey bread?”
He stilled his fork, tapping at his lips in thought. “Um… I’m not sure if I actually know. Maybe ‘cause you pull it apart? Like how a monkey eats?” He mimed the act.
“Ah, I see. So, there are no actual monkeys in the bread? That’s a shame,” I sighed sarcastically, loving the way he erupted into giggles.
“No, silly!”
I wasn’t sure if I was imagining it, but his voice seemed different. Maybe just a little higher in pitch, a little more carefree.
“You know,” I said conspiratorially, voice low like I was telling him a secret. “I think ifyoumade it, I might be willing to forgive the lack of actual monkey.”
Colby burst into another fit of laughter, nearly snorting as he pressed his napkin to his mouth to stifle the sound. His eyes sparkled in a way I hadn’t seen before—unguarded, wide, and soalive.
“Maybe I’ll make you some someday,” he said shyly, shoulders lifting in a half-shrug.
I smiled, letting the silence stretch just enough for him to wonder what I might say next.
“I’d like that.” I gave him a meaningful look as the words hung there, deceptively simple.
He ducked his head, biting the inside of his cheek, clearly flustered. A few moments passed while he fiddled with his fork, turning it over in his fingers. Then, almost too quietly, he asked, “Do they have stuff like that in Norway?”
I tilted my head slightly. “Monkey bread?”
“No,” he said quickly, cheeks flushing again. “I mean like… like sweet things. Well, no, of course there’s sweet things—but like, are there any pastries or desserts that you can’t get here?”
So hehadbeen thinking about me. It wasn’t just curiosity. He wanted toknowme.
That pleased me greatly.
“Yes, there are many,” I said, voice softening. “But they’re different. Heavier, sometimes. Spiced. My mother made this thing called kanelboller—like cinnamon buns, but not quite as sweet. Denser. Warm and sticky, fresh out of the oven.”
“That sounds amazing,” he whispered. “I love cinnamon stuff.” Colby looked up at me through his lashes again. “Maybe I’ll make you monkey bread, and you can make me those.”
A trade.
It sounded so innocent. So casual.
But the invitation was there.
“I’d like that too,” I said, smiling gently. “Very much. We could even make a day of it.”
His face practically glowed.
We ate in silence for a few moments, not awkward—justquiet.He relaxed more with each bite, each soft glance I gave him. There was a rhythm to it now, one I could fine-tune.
He was still wary, still confused by my attention. But I could feel it beginning to shift. Like hewantedto believe this was real, that someone might actually care about him.
When we finished, he reached for the empty plates, but I stopped him with a hand on the table. Not touching—just close.
“Thank you for sitting with me,” I said.
He smiled, ducking his head. “It’s okay. I… I liked it.”
I stood, sliding two folded twenties under the edge of my plate. His brows furrowed instantly.
“You really don’t have to do that,” he said quietly, fingers fidgeting at the edge of the table. “I mean, I’m just… talking to you.”
Exactly.
