Page 39 of A Me and You Thing
Hey, I like challenges.
We put the girls in their highchairs as they squeal and giggle. They really do have pleasant natures. I may not be a mom, but I’ve seen the little monsters some people call children at the mall, begging and crying and whining. I’m always annoyed.
It hits me then that I’ve probably never seen Josie and Jordyn during their whiny times. But I bet they have their moments. I’m pretty sure every child whines at times.
I can’t become irritated with them. I need to keep my cool.
I’m so unprepared for this. But then, I’m a fast learner.
Though I can’t, for the life of me, figure out how to snap the ridiculous belt on the high chair. I throw my hands down with frustration. Seriously, how many straps does it take to hold one child in place?
Sawyer patiently shows me where the shoulder and waist straps go and how to hook them. He’s so close, I can smell his aftershave. I breathe in deeply, noticing he smells really good.
He turns his head and looks at me. “Got it?”
No. I wasn’t paying attention because I was distracted by his close proximity. Of course, being close to me doesn’t faze him at all because all he can think about is Quinn. That’s how it should be. Shame on me for letting my thoughts wander. What am I thinking? This is my best friend’s husband. It doesn’t matter that she’s not here. She trusted me because she knew I would never deceive her. And I never will.
Once he shows me how the straps clasp, I wonder how I didn’t figure it out for myself. Maybe if a wiggly little girl wasn’t part of the equation, it would’ve been easier. Of course, it would have.
I’m an intelligent gal. I can do this.
I think.
I sit down at the table while Sawyer makes toast. I can do toast. Go me.
He looks good in jeans that hang low on his waist and a polo, tucked in at the front. His light-colored jeans are ripped at the knees, probably from working on his boat, not because he bought them that way. He’s always been casually stylish without even trying. He cuts off the crust, and cuts the bread into tiny bite-size pieces. The girls can hardly wait to munch it down. He pours apple juice into sippy cups and hands it to them as well.
I watch everything he does and commit it to memory. I wouldn’t have guessed the no crust and bite-size pieces part. I would’ve handed them a whole piece of bread because I don’t know what I’m doing. I’m in over my head.
Memories of Quinn are even stronger while perched in the kitchen. She was such a good cook because she actually enjoyed it. Go figure. It was her hobby. My eyes take in the painstakingly labeled spice rack, the fancy olive oil dispenser, the cute jars filled with various pastas, the stainless-steel utensil holders containing gadgets I’ve never seen, much less used. Everything reminds me of Quinn. I don’t know how Sawyer can stand to stay here. I miss her so much, especially our long talks. Let’s be real—I miss the way she always listened to me and never tired of my venting. She was a true friend. I know I’ll never find someone who can replace her.
“Eggies?” he asks the girls as they smile and attempt to clap their hands. I guess that means yes. They seem excited at the prospect.
I’ve never really heard a grown man sayeggiesfirst thing in the morning. I could get used to it.
Instead of sitting at the table, I get up and watch how he does it, because I’m pathetic and have no idea how to scramble eggs.
“I just want to see how you do it so I make them the way they like them.”
He works the spatula like a pro. “I know you don’t cook, Bree. No need to feel bad. Don’t worry, eggies are easy.”
“That’s my new mantra.”Eggies are easy. Eggies are easy.
“It’ll change. This is not the hard part.”
My swallow turns into a gulp. “What’s the hard part?”
“Daytime.”
“That’s not funny.”
“Not tryin’ to be.”
“I can do this, Sawyer. Are you worried about my capabilities?”
“Not at all. There’s a learning curve, but it’s unpredictable and changes without warning. Just so you know.”
“So, how do I keep up?”
