I pile a plate of pancakes up for Rose to eat, whenever she decides to grace us with her presence, and stick it in the microwave to stay warm.
I move to stand next to Poppy, who hasn’t started washing the dishes yet but is doing some sort of intricate prep work. She’s stacking plates on one corner of the counter, utensils next to them, and she’s got my dirty mixing bowl, spatula, and wooden spoon farthest from the sink.
“You know nothing is going to get clean unless you put it into the soapy water.”
“Aw, look who found his sense of humor this morning.” Poppy smirks at me. “You’re cute when you try to be sassy.”
It’s silly the jolt of serotonin I feel when she calls me cute.
“I have a system,” Poppy says, spreading her arms out wide.
“Clearly,” I say. “I can help. We’ll get done faster, and I’m prettyhandsy.”
“Oh my gosh, shut up.” Poppy swats me. She’s laughing, and I’m glad it’s not weird between us. We’re perfectly fine. Firmly in the friend zone, which is for the best. If she’s leaving at the end of the summer, it’s dumb to pursue anything…even if she was interested in me like that—which she isn’t.
“Alright. Tell me what to do so I don’t mess up your flow.”
“I’ll wash. You dry,” she says. “And it’ll be fun with music. It always is.”
I retrieve my AirPods and hand her one. We each slip the little listening devices into opposite ears, and I press play. Taylor Swift’s “The Story of Us” (Taylor's Version) starts up.
“What a banger,” Poppy says. “Good pick.”
We settle in, and I’m trying not to focus on the spark that crackles between us every time she hands me a soaking wet dish. It’s against the laws of physics, or science, or whatever that we’d be able to generate any electricity with water in play, and yet, here we are.
I can only hope no one gets burned.
Poppy is oblivious. She’s humming happily along, making small talk about work and the weather.
“What’s that out there?” she asks during a song break. She’s gesturing with her elbow out the kitchen window to the back corner of my lawn.
I have a giant tarp tacked down over a project I’ve been working on. It’s not done, and I’m not sure if I’ll ever finish it at this point.
“Nothing. Storage.”
Poppy takes me at my word and gets back to the dishes. The song switches to “Enchanted” (Taylor's Version), and by the time it gets to the bridge, we’re both belting it out. Poppy is botching lyrics here and there, which is so endearing. She sang, “These are the doors I held cracked as I was leaving, you’ll see,” and that makes absolutely no sense, but I kind of love it.
“Hey, Big?”
I turn to her, and with more speed than I would have thought possible, she reaches forward, grabs the spray nozzle, and points it directly at my face.
I’m soaking wet and spluttering as Taylor croons, over and over, about not being in love with anyone else.
Poppy is cackling. “I saw that online, and I always wanted to try it.”
I splutter and wrench the sprayer from her hand, turning it on her.
She squeals and tries to sprint away from me, but I can be quick too.
I wrap my arm around her waist, and she lifts her legs off the ground, but I hold firm—her back to my chest. I point the sprayer directly at her.
I’m getting drenched as I spray her, but it’s worth it to feel Poppy belly laugh and kick out as she tries to wiggle away.
My front door opens, and Collin saunters in. He takes one look at us and tips his head to the side. “What’s going on here?”
“Collin, tell Big waterboarding is against the law,” Poppy says as I set her down.
“Don’t start something you aren’t prepared to finish, Boo.”
