Page 17 of Rule 5: Never Crush on the Captain
Stella cracks the egg. Some shells must have fallen into the bowl because Stella stiffens. Her gaze is fixed on the counter, and the back of her neck is redder than it was before.
I start to stand, but Vinnie picks up a spoon. “I like to get any shells out with this.” He demonstrates. “See?”
Stella nods. “You sometimes have shells fall into the eggs?”
“Of course. Especially when I was starting out.”
I’m not sure I believe Vinnie. He always moves with an athletic elegance.
Stella is enthusiastic and noisy, but she probably doesn’t top the list in detail-orientation of her fellow second-grade students. At least, if she does, there’s really something wrong with her teacher’s grading rubric in that atrociously expensive elementary school.
I listen to them continue to chatter and find my eyelids growing heavier.
“Want to head off to bed, big guy?”
“I don’t like naps.”
Stella stares at me. “I don’t like naps either.”
Shit.
Vinnie’s lips curl.
“But naps are important,” I say hastily. “In fact, I’ll take one after breakfast. Have to make sure you don’t burn the house down, Vinnie.”
“I’ve got this.”
It seems he does have this.
“I still don’t like pancakes,” Stella says.
“That’s why we’re making French toast,” Vinnie says.
Her eyes widen. “I’ve had that before.”
“Oh?” He smiles. “Then ze are a very sophisticated woman, mademoiselle.”
Stella giggles.
While Stella stirs cinnamon and a dash of orange juice in the mixture, Vinnie manages to cut up my entire carton of fresh strawberries.
Vinnie proceeds to cook the French toast, Stella at his slide. He explains how he decides when to flip the French toast, so that she can tell him when it’s time for the next batch. Then he sets the French toast onto some blue-and-white China that I don’t think I’ve ever used, sprinkles powdered sugar and drizzles maple syrup, then arranges the cut strawberries in a manner Valentina would praise.
Even though today is a horrible day because my head hurts, and I was hauled from the ice yesterday, something calms in me.
I’d wanted to spend more time with Vinnie.
Honestly, it’s going better than I thought.
Vinnie ushers me to the dining room table and serves us. I’m relieved that Stella’s plate is more strawberries than French toast, and he’s somehow managed to scramble some eggs and spinach for me. The cucumbers have found their way into a carafe of water.
“Don’t force yourself to eat anything that doesn’t feel good,” he says. “You need your strength, though.”
“I read the pamphlet too,” I mumble.
He grins.
Then the doorbell rings.
