The second slice burns.
I lift an eyebrow.
He points the spatula at me. “Stove’s aggressive.”
“Of course.”
“The heat distribution has a personal grudge against me.”
“Obviously.”
August giggles.
Derby finally lowers the heat and manages three sandwiches that are uneven, too buttery, and cut with a knife that mashes the bread flat on one side. He plates them like he has done something heroic.
“Dinner,” he says.
“It’s almost ten,” I say.
“Late dinner.”
“It’s a snack.”
“Don’t diminish my labor.”
August grabs a sandwich triangle and takes a bite. Cheese stretches from his mouth to the plate. His eyes widen.
“Good?” I ask.
He nods, chewing.
Derby looks too pleased.
I take a bite of mine.
It isn’t bad.
Too greasy. A little burnt around the edges. But warm. Salty. Made by someone who did not have to make it.
My throat tightens.
I swallow and set the sandwich down.
Derby notices immediately. “What?”
“Nothing.”
“That word is getting abused today.”
“I’m fine.”
He gives me a look.
The same one he gave me on the road. The one that says he doesn’t believe me but isn’t going to peel the answer out by force.
I hate that too.
Love it, maybe.