My stomach flips.
I hate my stomach.
I also don’t.
August comes running in with Blue Rex. “Food?”
Derby looks down at him. “You got a sixth sense?”
“I smelled cheese.”
“Respect.”
“Can Blue Rex have some?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because he’s extinct.”
August thinks about that. “That’s sad.”
Derby mutters, “Everything is sad to this kid.”
“He’s five,” I say.
“Five is dramatic.”
“Bikers are dramatic. You named your motorcycle Widowmaker.”
“I told you, Oaks named her.”
“You kept it.”
“Because it’s accurate.”
“Dramatic,” I repeat.
August climbs onto a kitchen chair and watches Derby cook like it’s a cooking show with more tattoos. Derby isn’t good at cooking. That becomes obvious immediately. He burns the first piece of bread, curses under his breath, remembers August is there, then says, “Darn,” with such pain in his voice that I have to turn toward the sink to hide my smile.
August whispers, “You can say damn. I know it.”
“No, he can’t,” I say.
Derby scrapes the burnt piece into the trash. “The censorship in this house is oppressive.”
“It’s my child.”
“It’s my burnt bread.”
“You’ll survive.”
“Will I?”
I lean against the counter, watching him assemble another sandwich with grim determination. “Do you want help?”
“No.”