Page 56 of Please Open Me
Harass the kids like they harassed Mason.
At least, that was the goal, until I made it to the living room.
Sunlight streamed through the open blinds, and a loop of bird sounds and a babbling brook played from the TV. Mason sat on the couch, leaned back with Rosie sleeping on her chest. One hand held a book. The other held a brownie.
One that looked awfully homemade.
“Did you bake?” I asked, giving Mason a once-over.
Her spotless white sundress said absolutely not.
Mason looked up from her book like she’d known I’d be there soon. She placed her brownie on a nearby plate, swallowed, and wiped her mouth with her hand.
“No, Cam did,” she mumbled through the half-chewed brownie.
I leaned down and kissed her forehead, then kissed Rosie’s. In response to my affection, my sweet, beautiful, lovely daughter farted like a grown man and snuggled deeper into her mom’s chest.
I gagged. Mason didn’t even flinch. She patted the baby hard enough for the sound to echo off her diaper.
“Her belly hurts,” Mason explained.
“Uh, yeah, it better.”
I took a few steps back, not wanting to be in the splash zone of pinkeye.
Rosie was twenty pounds, and sure, she was a chunky baby, but never in my life would I understand how something that small could smellthatbad.
“She’s been gassy all morning. I’ve walked a hundred laps around the house, and now she’s finally asleep.” Mason adjusted the baby without looking and went back to her brownie.
Being a parent was gross. And it wasn’t just her. Because despite being assaulted by biological warfare, I was still ready for breakfast.
Mason must’ve caught me staring, because she gestured toward the kitchen. “There’s more on the stove if you want them.”
Fuck yes.
I mumbled an apology for not waking up sooner and headed for the kitchen.
Before dating Mason, I’d successfully avoided almost all added sugar for three years. The last time I so much as looked at a brownie was back when I first started bodybuilding at eighteen and had to bulk up. That part of the cycle–eatingwhatever I wanted without worrying about the results–was way more fun than cutting or maintaining.
Now that I was free from restrictive dieting?
Sugar was my weakness, to say the least.
When Mason said there were more in the kitchen, I envisioned a mostly full pan, or at least one that looked like it had been consumed by civilized people.
Instead, not only was the pan mostly empty, but the only squares left were the three sad ones in the center.
Mushy. Limp. Completely cornerless. You know, the parts of the brownie no oneactuallywants.
My head tipped back and I let out a spoiled groan.
Was I still going to have a brownie and a cup of coffee for breakfast? Yes.
Would I enjoy it? Probably.
But would I have enjoyed a corner piece more? Absolutely.
Still, I grabbed a plate and a spatula and scooped out my chocolate mush.
