Page 98 of Cloudy With a Chance of Bad Decisions
Because he finished the potato salad all on his own.
And when he tried to apologize when he’d realized what he’d done, I simply shook my head, offered him the third sandwich, and felt proud. Because somehow, someway, I’d been able to set George at ease enough that he’d been able to eat despite all that he’d been through today.
I’d taken care of him.
Just like he’d taken care of me.
And I had never felt more accomplished in all my life.
Or more terrified of why that was.
George and I were inseparable after that—a fact that only caused me immense joy. He nagged me all day, trailing behind me like a lost kitten. We ended up eating during the same early dinner rotation, and Mrs. Milton roped the both of us into prepping for lunch for “lake day” after we’d finished. No one said a word about the disaster of a hike, for which I was genuinely glad.
It was satisfying to witness George slowly, but surely, dropping his guard when I was around. I didn’t think he realized it was happening. But his iciness was decidedly less icy. Which meant I was privy to some rather fascinating sights and observations as the day wore on.
Every breath George took was captivating, and every twitch of his mouth was something to be celebrated. I loved the way he moved, all clipped and focused. Loved how his default expression was guarded annoyance. Loved the way he so clearly adored his mother. He lit up when she walked by. And those dark blue eyes told me he thought she wassunshine, especially as he putteredaround the kitchen doing her bidding.
George kept glancing at her dress, this pleased curl to his lips that told me he loved it. Which in itself was a miracle—because while Mrs. Milton had many qualities, fashion sense was not one of them.
Every time I’d attended one of the Milton-Quil—Roderick’s last name—summer barbecues, she’d been in something gaudy and eye-catching. She wore her creativity outwardly, the patterns of her dresses as loud as her voice could often be. Despite her no-nonsense tone, Mrs. Milton was a soft, kind woman. Her heart was overflowing with love for everyone she met, me included. She hugged as a greeting. And every time she squeezed and squeezed me, all my years melted away. Like she was hugging the little boy I’d been, not the jaded man I was now.
She was a mother, through and through.
I hadn’t really had one of those. My mother was really only that in name. She’d be coming to the ceremony, but it was more than likely only for a few minutes before she jetted off on her next adventure, far, far away from us.
I could see why George loved his mother.
And hedid.
Even when she was acting ridiculous, or pinching his cheeks, or bossing him around. The affection in his eyes never wavered. When he’d catch me looking, he’d glare at me, though the look was far from intimidating.
“What happened to your hand?” Mrs. Milton fretted when she noticed the bandages. George gave an excuse that didn’t even make sense, and she sighed, then enveloped him in a back-breaking hug. He wheezed, and she chortled, before directing him to the far end of the room, away from the knives—as if the last thing she was going to do was have her injured son handle anything sharp.
“You too.” Mrs. Milton wasted no time whipping my ass with a towel to get me moving. “Many hands make light work.” Yelping, I scurried after George quickly, unable to hide my laughter.
George and I were on sandwich duty. Which meant a whole lot ofmayonnaise. Magnanimously, I let George take care of that part while I plopped cheese and meat into the pre-cut rolls.
“Disgusting,” George muttered under his breath when he spilled a glob of the sauce on his wrist. I handed him a napkin and he flashed me a smile in thanks before returning to his task. He worked with quick efficiency. George was good with his hands, despite being a jittery guy, and it was almost hypnotic the way we fell into a rhythm. Open, spread, slide. Plop, close, seal. Rinse and repeat.
“Did George ever tell you he’s a senior designer at his company?” Mrs. M said conversationally. She was like June, always with an agenda.
“He did not, no,” I replied, glancing at him curiously. “I bet he’s good at that.”
“I’m a perfectionist,” George grunted. “Comes with the territory.” He was embarrassed to be talked up like this. He kept shooting his mom looks, like he was begging her to stop.
“He was top of his class in school too,” she added, undeterred.
“This isn’t a job interview.” George glared at her.
“Of course not, honey,” his mom nodded, smiling serenely. “Just making conversation.”
And then five minutes later…
“Did you know George was a cheerleader in high school?”
And.
“Did you know George graduated with high honors and a 4.0 GPA?”
