Page 62 of Puck Daddies
She smiles, softer now. “Good.”
No time like the present to fix everything, right? “Since we’re being honest about our feelings and what we wish we could change about the past, please don’t ever make eggs again.”
She laughs and grins. “Rude.”
Hudson shakes his head. “He’s not joking.”
Rocco raises a hand. “Also not joking.”
She puts a hand to her heart. “Wow.”
“We’ll cook,” I tell her. “You run a shop and a block party, and a legal fight. We’ll handle breakfast.”
She snorts. “Deal. I’ll make coffee.”
“Perfect division of labor,” Hudson says.
We pull her close and she tucks herself between us. She smells like honey and clean cotton. My hand rests on her stomach. Her fingers trace circles on my wrist until her breath evens. Hudson’s leg is heavy against mine. Rocco’s arm lies across both of us.
Unconventional? Sure.
Do we care? Nah.
We stand by her in public and hold her in private. We are allowed to believe that everything is going to be alright, because we’re doing the work to make it so. Maybe that’s naïve, but the world needs that.
21
MEG
The inspector showsup at ten with a clipboard and a tight smile. Janna Walsh. She flashes the badge—not necessary—signs the log, and starts at the handwash sink without small talk. I wash my hands the way the poster says, dry with a paper towel, and shut the faucet with my elbow.
She notes “inadequate signage distance.”
She moves fast. The thermometer in the milk fridge sits at 40.5. She tsks and writes “cold hold borderline.” I turn the dial a notch colder while she’s still in front of it.
She opens the undercounter and runs a finger along the gasket. It peels at the corner I keep meaning to replace. “Damaged gasket,” she says. I write “order gasket” on my pad.
Sanitizer test strips next. She dips, swirls, and holds the color up. “Quats under 200 ppm.” I remake the bucket stronger and swap the cloths. She notes it anyway.
She walks to the ice bin and lifts the scoop. The handle rests in ice. “Scoop downward,” she says. I move it to the holder. She scribbles.
She checks the mop sink area. “Wet mop stored head-down. Good. But the chemical bottles are unlabeled.” John grabs a Sharpie and writes FAST ORANGE, DEGREASER, GLASS, then caps them and puts them in the caddy. She writes “improper labeling—corrected on site,” and still counts it against us.
She shines a light under the espresso machine. “Food debris under equipment.” There is a thin dusting of coffee grounds I missed during close. I didn’t even know that was a problem.
Bex gets the brush and pan without being asked. The inspector points to the vent. “Dust on return.” Tom climbs the stepstool with a cloth and wipes. She writes “HVAC dust.”
It’s a long list of small things. A hairline gap in the baseboard by the back door. A drip at the handwash sink. A box of cups stored six inches off the floor instead of twelve—apparently a new regulation as of last month. Wiping cloth not in sanitizer. Date label on a deli container smeared. It came that way.
“You should have denied the package and told them to take it back.”
“Really, lady?” John snaps.
“Not helping,” I mutter.
A knife in the drying rack sits blade up. The wall behind the three-compartment sink needs scrubbing. The floor coving by the mop closet is pulling away.
None of it is scary. All of it looks bad on paper.
