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Her face softens. “You’re worried he won’t like you?”
I hold my finger and thumb about an inch apart. “Maybe a little.”
“He adores you,” she says, like she’s trying to remind me. “Stop worrying.”
“He doesn’t even know me.” I wince at the truth of them even as I say the words.
“He does know you. He knows you’re his father and that you adore him. I’ve seen you with him. That bond is already there.”
I heave in a breath. “Okay.”
“Okay,” she repeats, like she’s coaching a baseball team. “So what did you need from me?”
“What do I feed him?”
She looks surprised. “What do you feed him?”
“Stop looking at me like that,” I grouse. “The last time I had him with me, he was still eating soft food that came in jars.”
“Did you ask your mom what he likes?”
Why didn’t I think of that? “I should do that, huh?”
She waves her hands. “Don’t even worry about it. Just pick up some staples.”
“Staples? What…?” I stare at her.
She shakes her head in mock annoyance. “Some fruit, some of those fishy crackers, some cereal and milk for breakfast, maybe some hot dogs and marshmallows you can roast over the fire…” She lets her voice trail off, expecting me to get the gist.
“Do you think it’s safe to have him around a fire?”
“Mitchell is seven, right? I think he can safely roast a marshmallow with parental supervision.” I must stare at her too long because she adds, “That’s you, dummy. The parent.”
“Oh. Right.”
She grabs a basket and walks around tossing random things in. She gets some fish-shaped snack crackers in case he gets the munchies during the night, some cereal and milk for breakfast, and she gets some hot dogs and buns for dinner. “He might like roasting these,” she says. She walks around some more, grabbing random fruit and kid snacks that I didn’t even know existed, and then she walks to the tackle section of the store. “Does he like to fish?”
I shrug. “I have no idea.” And my parental credit actually diminishes more than I ever thought it could. And it was pretty low to start with.
“You could get him a fishing pole. One of those kid poles that are lightweight.” She picks one up and tests the weight of it. “I think he’d want a big kid pole and not one of the ones with the cartoon characters on it. What do you think?” She holds it out to me.
“A fishing pole,” I say, and it actually sounds like a good idea. I take it and pick a simple reel to go with it.
“Where’s he going to sleep?” she asks me.
I scratch my head. “In my tent, of course.”
“I know that, but where?”
“In the tent,” I say again, not understanding.
“Where do you sleep?” she asks. “In a sleeping bag?”
“No, I went for comfort and got an air mattress,” I admit.
“Fancy.” She grins. “So does it have enough room for him too?”