Page 87 of Until August
“Food always tastes better when you cook it yourself.”
“Mom says food always tastes better when shedoesn’thave to cook it.”
I laughed. “Yeah, your mom was never into cooking.” That was putting it nicely. Sasha couldn’t cook. At all. She either burned everything or undercooked it. It used to baffle me how she couldn’t even follow a simple recipe.
“What did I do at your restaurant when I visited?” he asked.
“I made lunch for you and your mommy while I did my prep work. You loved to watch me cook.” Sasha used to joke that I was better entertainment than the Disney channel. “I introduced you to all kinds of new food. Not kid food for you, little man. No chicken nuggets or Happy Meals.”
“What?” He looked so scandalized that I laughed. “I love McDonald's.”
I sighed. “Next time we’re together, I’ll make you arealburger.”
Sage left his seat and gripped the metal banister, watching the seagulls as they dumpster-dived. Stupid birds. The ocean was only a few miles away. Sage glanced over at me. “Did I have fun at your restaurant?”
“You had fun because you were in the kitchen. I used to put you at the chef’s table.”
“What’s that?”
“A special table in the kitchen where the customers could watch the chefs preparing the food.”
He rested his chin on his crossed arms, still fascinated by the seagulls. “What kind of food did you make?”
I’d forgotten how many questions kids ask. All day he’d quizzed me on everything from why sea stars are so shy to why some peppers are green when others are yellow, red, or orange. But these were easy questions. We hadn’t tackled any of the big ones yet.
“I had something called a tasting menu. Every night was different. I used to go to the markets early in the morning and create a menu around whatever was freshest or excited me that day. Nobody knew what they were getting until we served them.”
“Like a surprise?”
“Yep.”
He grew tired of watching the seagulls and turned his back to the parking lot, then stared at the flat roof for a minute before running over to my chair and leaning on the arm. “Can I play a game on your phone?”
“I don’t have any games on my phone. Let’s clean up, and we’ll go to the beach or the playground for a while before I take you home.”
“Okay.” He carried his glass of water into the kitchen, leaving me with the rest. I chuckled under my breath. Kids.
“So, you were the boss,” he said, eating the leftover pineapple while I washed up the dishes.
“I was the boss.”
He was quiet for a minute. “I don’t remember it. I don’t remember anything. I keep trying to think really hard.” I turned from the sink, hearing the change in his tone. He gripped his head in his hands. “But I don’t even remember you. I feel like I should, but I don’t.”
His chin trembled like he was trying to hold back the tears and his eyes dropped to the floor. Without a second thought, I did what I’d wanted to since I saw him on the beach with Travis.
I lifted him off the ground and into my arms. He was seven going on eight, and maybe he was too big for this, but fuck it. He was still a little boy, and he was hurting. All I wanted to do was fix this and take away his pain.
He wrapped his arms around my neck and held on tight like I’d vanish if he didn’t keep a firm grip.
My eyes closed, and my heart cracked when I felt his warm tears seeping into my t-shirt.
While he cried silent tears, I rubbed his back, trying to soothe him like I used to when he was a baby and woke up crying in the middle of the night.
We used to have an upholstered rocking chair in his room that Sasha used for breastfeeding, and so many nights when I got home from work, I’d fall asleep holding Sage in that rocking chair.
On my one day off, we spent the whole day together. Sasha and I took him to the park. To the playground. To the beach. To the markets. Hiking in the canyon with him in a baby carrier when he was too young to walk, and when he got older, he’d walk until he got too tired. Then he’d ride on my shoulders.
But I wasn’t surprised he didn’t remember any of that. I couldn’t remember anything before the age of three, either.
