“You got this, Jonah!” His mother, his cheerleader, his main inspo. Surely she was watching from heaven, cheering him on like she had from the sidelines of every football game.
“Yes,” he said, clinging to that image. “Absolutely yes, Chef.”
Broussard nodded once, as though he’d expected nothing less. “Good. She’ll want to meet you soon. I’ll set it up.” He stood and eyed Jonah with a narrowed gaze. “Don’t make me regret this, Lawson.”
“I won’t, Chef.”
“And get some sleep. You look terrible.”
“Thank you, Chef.”
Broussard almost smiled—almost—and walked out, leaving Jonah alone in the empty lecture hall holding a business card that felt like it weighed ten pounds.
He sat there for a full minute, letting it sink in. Then he pulled out his phone to call the grannies and tell them he’d be staying for the afternoon lab after all.
Jo Ellen answered on the first ring, which was either a good sign or a very bad one.
“Jonah! Oh, good, I was just about to call you.”
The tone. He knew that tone. It was the voice of a woman trying very hard to sound calm while something behind her was on fire.
“What’s wrong?” He stood and shoved the business card into his back pocket.
“Well, now, it’s nothing to panic about?—”
In the background, Atlas screamed. Not the annoyed cry or the hungry cry or even the tired cry. This was the full-throated, something-is-wrong wail that Jonah could identify from a hundred yards.
“Jo Ellen. What happened?”
“He’s running a little fever, sweetheart. And he’s been sick—just a small spit-up, really, but Maggie thinks it’s?—”
“Atlas Lawson!” Maggie’s voice cut in from somewhere nearby, sharp and commanding. “That is quite enough of that. You are a Lawson and Lawsons do not carry on like this.”
“Is she lecturing my baby?”
Jo Ellen gave a nervous laugh. “She’s trying to help. Or control.”
Well, yeah, it was Magnolia Lawson, the great control freak.
“But the thing in his diaper, Jonah,” Jo Ellen continued. “I don’t want to alarm you, but it was the color of—well, Dijon mustard? Maybe a little more green. Is that normal?”
Jonah closed his eyes. “How much green Dijon mustard are we talking about?”
“Oh, I’d say a generous tablespoon? Maybe two? Maggie thought it looked more like curry, but I said?—”
“I’m coming home.” He grabbed his backpack and moved toward the door. “Try to keep him comfortable, don’t give him any meds or, God forbid, whiskey. I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”
“Fifteen would be better, dear.”
He hung up, jogged across the parking lot, and threw himself into the Honda. The engine turned over with its usual reluctance, like even his car thought he was asking too much of it today.
As he pulled out of the lot, Jonah did the math one more time.
Three evening shifts. Probable Saturday service. A full lecture schedule. Minus a lab or two. Plus a baby who was currently producing Dijon mustard diapers and screaming at his great-grandmother.
And he’d said yes without hesitation.
It was possible that agreeing to this internship was the single dumbest thing he’d ever done. And considering the life he’d lived, that was saying something.