Wilbur hangs out with us, dunking his head over and over. He has never looked happier. And I’m just happy he came back home.
“Do you think he’ll stay?” Abigail asks.
“I kind of hope not,” I reply truthfully.
She watches Wilbur as he splashes around with Mitchell, which makes both of us laugh.
I pick up the shampoo bottle and hold it out to her. “Ladies first.”
She shakes her head. “That stuff will make my hair so frizzy I’ll look like I stuck my finger in a light socket.” She shoves it back toward me. “You go ahead.”
I dump some of the shampoo into my hand and start to rub my hair with it, lathering it up. Mitchell grins and comes and does the same thing. “This is fun,” he says. Then he dunks himself to get all the soap out. I do the same. I hand him the soap so he can wash up, but he looks at it like I’m trying to hand him an unpinned grenade.
“You got something against soap?”
“I’m not washing my butt in front of a girl,” Mitchell says.
“I didn’t want to see your butt anyway,” Abigail says as she splashes him.
He laughs and dunks himself again to wash out the rest of the shampoo.
“I’m actually going to go home and change. Shower. Get the lake water off,” she says. “So I guess I’ll see you guys tomorrow?” She waits a beat, like she’s waiting for confirmation.
“You don’t want hot dogs?” Mitchell says, his smile fading from his face. “And marshmallows?”
“Oh…well…” Abigail looks toward me and raises her brows into a questioning attitude.
“Go shower, then come back to our campsite. We’re going to get everything ready.”
“And you want company?” She looks unsure. She very quietly leans close to me and says, “Don’t you want some time with Mitchell? Alone?”
I smile at her. “I want you to join us for dinner.”
“Well then, I guess I will. Thanks.”
I watch her as she walks out of the lake. She tugs at her clothes, which are stuck to her from the water. “It’s colder when you get out,” she says over her shoulder, giving a little shiver.
Her shorts are halfway stuffed up her butt, so she gives them a tug. I notice she faces the other direction, and I would love for her to turn around and yet hate the very idea of her turning around at the same time.
“I’ll see you guys in a little while,” she calls out with a wave. And she walks away without turning back.
“You like her,” Mitchell sings out. Then he jumps on me and tries to shove me under the water.
I let him, because that’s what dads do. And I am a dad. For the first time in a very long time, I am a dad.
I hand him the soap. “Now you can wash your butt.” He rolls his eyes as he takes the soap, but he does as I tell him.
The truth is that I do like Abigail. I like her a lot. I just hope she can like me back half as much. I don’t need or expect much. I’ve learned through the years that doing that only leaves you feeling unsatisfied.
19
Abigail
I go home, take a shower, rinse and condition my hair—because I learned at a very early age that people with hair as curly as mine know it’s hair suicide to wash it every day. Then I get dressed in one of my Lake Fisher t-shirts, put on some jeans because the night air can be chilly, and I go back to find the boys.
When I get there, they’re putting hot dogs in buns, and Ethan is cutting up an apple using his pocketknife. He looks up when he hears my footsteps and smiles at me. “I was starting to think you weren’t coming back.” He looks at me through one eye, the way he always does when he’s thinking. “I’m glad you did,” he says quietly.
I’m glad too. “What can I help you do?”
“Nothing,” he says with a shrug. “Mitchell roasted all the hot dogs all by himself. And I cut up some fruit.” He leans close to me and whispers, “What else do I need?”
“You don’t need anything,” I whisper back.
He grins and waggles his brows at me. “I can think of one thing I need.”
Mitchell pretends to gag from where he’s sitting at the little picnic table eating a hot dog. “Girls are gross,” he says with his mouth full.
“I’d prefer for you to finish chewing before you talk,” Ethan warns, but he smiles at him while he does it. Mitchell tucks back into the food, and Ethan lays a cut-up apple on the side of his plate. He spears one of the apple slices with his knife and holds it out in my direction. “Apple?” He waits.
I reach out and take it. “I’m afraid to ask where that knife has been,” I say. My grandfather always used to cut his toenails with his. Ick.
He looks offended. “I disinfected it before I cut the apple.”
“He did,” Mitchell chimes in. “I saw him.” A piece of apple flies out of his mouth and hits the table, so he scoops it up and shoves it back into his mouth.
“Talk about gross,” I tease. He grins at me and keeps eating.
“How much are they supposed to eat?” Ethan asks me quietly, leaning toward me so he can whisper. His gaze moves to his son and back to me, over and over. “He’s on his fourth hot dog.”
“I think it’s probably fine,” I say. I don’t really know that much about kids, though, so I could be totally wrong.
Ethan passes me a hot dog, which he has already smeared with mustard. “Sorry,” he says sheepishly. “I forgot the chili.”
Mitchell holds up one finger. “Next time, we need chili and onions.”
“You eat onions?”
He nods, his mouth full once again. “I eat everything.”
Ethan waggles his brows at me again. “Like father like son.”
Heat creeps up my cheeks as I sit down at the little table and take a bite of my hot dog.
Mitchell jumps up from the table. “I have to pee,” he says as he dances in place. “Where’s the bathroom?”
Ethan jerks his thumb toward the tree line on the other side of the campsite. “Go pee in the bushes.”
“Really?” Mitchell replies. “Cool!”
He runs toward the trees.
“Keep it pointed away from the lady!” Ethan calls to his retreating back. Mitchell doesn’t reply, but he does give him a thumbs-up over his shoulder.
“So, how’s it going?” I ask.
He sucks in a slow breath. “Great, actually. Is that weird?”
I shake my head. “I don’t think it’s weird. I think it’s wonderful. He’s a good kid.”
He stares off in the direction where Mitchell went. We can still see him, standing at the tree line, but he’s a good ways away. “Sadly, I don’t get to take any credit for what a good kid he is.” He keeps staring, like he’s afraid his son will disappear if he takes his eyes off him.
When he sees that Mitchell is headed back toward us, he finally turns and looks me in the eye. “I’d like to tell you about what happened,” he says. “If you want to hear it.”
“I want to hear it.” I do. I do want to hear it. I can’t imagine that it’ll be nearly as bad as the bits and pieces I’ve heard from other people.