“Um, Ca-Cason…would it be all right if we ordered dinner now?”
Stormi leapt to her feet, rushing over with the menu. “Of course! Pick out what you’d like and I’ll give them a call. They’re usually pretty fast with deliveries.”
Without even looking at the menu, Jacob sheepishly glanced at her. “May I please have chicken lo mein?”
“Coming right up.” Stormi walked into the kitchen to place the order.
I didn’t know what to say to the kid. I just stood there uncomfortably for far too long with my hands in my pockets.
“Did you get your homework done?” I finally spit out.
“Yes, sir.”
“Want to watch something while we wait for dinner?” Television: the best way to avoid uncomfortable small talk.
“I likeA Series of Unfortunate Events. It’s on Netflix.”
A full sentence about something he enjoys—progress.Baby steps.
“On it.” I grabbed the remote and cued up the show on a profile I had set up for Jacob before his arrival. It was weird, but I felt like I needed to give some kind of olive branch, and his own profile on my Netflix account seemed like a decent start.
He found the next episode he hadn’t seen yet. Just as the show was about to begin, he paused it. “Would you like me to start it from the beginning so you’re not lost?”
My heart melted.
“That is very nice of you, Jacob. I would appreciate that a lot.” And there was his olive branch.
He flipped to the first episode and we took seats on opposite sides of the couch. I was surprised how good the show was.
Stormi started to walk in then stopped. I patted the cushion next to me, but she just smiled and waved me off as she mouthed, “Bond a little.”
I watched as my wife grabbed her laptop and made her way into our bedroom.
Chapter 7
Stormi
Just when I was starting to feel comfortable and had finally gotten into a groove writing my next article, the doorbell chimed. My stomach grumbled as I made my way to the foyer where Cason was already paying the delivery man.
“How’s it going?” I asked under my breath, taking one of the bags of food from my husband.
The grin that spread across his face warmed my heart. “Really well, I think. I mean, it’s night one. We’ll see how the rest of the weekend goes.”
“Jacob, want to come to the table after you wash your hands?” I called into the living room.
Without protest, he marched to the kitchen sink, scrubbed his hands better than most adults, and took a seat at the dining room table.
“Thank you for getting me dinner,” he stated as he scooted his chair in.
I was astonished at how polite he was for a tween. I had heard countless horror stories and was more nervous about having him in our home than I cared to admit, but from the jump, I was more than impressed with the little man he seemed to be.
I set the table with plates, forks, and chopsticks.
“What would you like to drink? Pop? Water? Juice?” Cason asked, standing in front of the open fridge.
“What’s pop?” Jacob queried, and I about died a thousand deaths from trying to hold in my laughter.
“That’s what Cason calls soda because he’s from Minnesota and they’re weird up there,” I teased, glancing over at my husband, who was now pouting. “We have ginger ale and Coke, if either of those work for you.”