“I did make a big mess. I seem to do that a lot.” I helped Hyde climb up into one of the stools that sat at the island. I found a clean bowl and spoon and put both in front of him while I measured out more mix and dug the milk back out of the fridge.
“Zeb says making a mess is okay as long as you also clean it up.” It sounded like Zeb had taken to fatherhood like a duck to water.
“Your dad is full of good advice.”
A little furrow worked between his tiny dark eyebrows as I added the liquid to the mix in the bowl and told him to go ahead and stir. I thought he was concentrating on the task at hand but when he spoke he surprised me.
“Everyone calls him my dad.”
I propped my elbows on the countertop and put my chin in my hand. “He is your dad. I’m not sure what else we would call him.”
He looked up at me and sucked his bottom lip in and then let it go with a pop. “He was my friend before he was my dad.”
“You’re right. He was and he’s still your friend even though he is also your dad.”
“Sometimes I want to call him Dad.”
I sucked in a breath through my teeth. I wasn’t sure I was the person he should be having this conversation with. “Try and get as many of the lumps out as you can.” I pointed to one big blob of batter in the bowl and walked over so that I could lean on the counter next to him. “Have you mentioned to Zeb that you might want to call him Dad?”
He shook his head and I heard his feet thumping under the counter as he kicked them up and down.
“No. What if he doesn’t like it?”
I reached out and put a finger under his chin and turned his face up so that he was looking at me. “Hyde, do you think Zeb is honest with you?”
The little boy considered me thoughtfully for a second and I tried not to cringe as he let go of the spoon and it slipped all the way into the bowl and was sucked up by the gooey batter.
“Yeah. Zeb doesn’t lie.”
“So if you tell him that you want to call him Dad, then you know he’ll tell you how he really feels about it. I bet you a hundred bucks it makes him really happy and that he might even cry.” It was a hedged bet. I knew I was going to win the bet and lose the money because there was no way that Zeb wouldn’t at least tear up when Hyde asked that question. A hundred dollars would buy the little man a lot of pizza and make the emotional moment between father and son even more special.
I wiggled my eyebrows up and down, which made Hyde laugh. “Zeb won’t cry.” He sounded so sure of the fact. The adorable little boy had no clue just how much of an effect he had on his big, bearded father.
I stuck out a hand. “A hundred bucks says he does.”
Hyde put his hand in mine and screwed up his face in concentration. “I don’t have a hundred bucks, though. I only have ten quarters.”
Could the kid be any more precious? The answer to that was a resounding “hell no.” “You don’t have to give me your quarters. If you win and Zeb doesn’t cry when you ask him, all you have to give me is your best hug. Deal?”
He shook our joined hands vigorously and grinned at me. “Deal.”
I tugged him closer, so that our noses were almost touching, and mock-whispered, “Do you want to know a secret?”
His evergreen eyes popped wide and he nodded so vigorously that for a second I thought he was going to slide off the stool. I put my lips on his baby-soft cheek and gave him a little peck.
“It doesn’t matter to your dad what you call him . . . Daddy, Zeb, Zebulon, Old Man River, Mr. Giant, Captain Beardo, Paul Bunyan . . . all he cares about is that you’re here to call him anything. He simply wants you, Hyde. No matter what, I want you to remember that, okay?”
He gave a jerky little nod and I pulled away and took the bowl with me over to the stove so that I could try again to make pancakes once I found another spoon. There was no way I was going fishing for the one that was at the bottom of the bowl. I would end up with batter in even more places than I already had it.
I had everything set up and was intently focused on my task when Hyde’s voice drifted to me from across the room.
“How come you only have one red wall?” He had climbed off the stool and was standing in front of the poppy-colored wall, studying it with his head tilted a little to the side.
“Uh, your dad actually painted it for me. I have a friend who lives with me and he asked her to pick out a color to cheer her up. That was the color she chose.”
“I like it. It’s bright.”
“I like it, too, and when the pancakes are done and hopefully not burned this time around, we can go wake Poppy up and you can tell her you like it. She’ll be thrilled.”
“Are you gonna have my dad paint more?”
I felt my spine go stiff at the stove as the butter melted and sizzled on the griddle. I wondered if he even realized that he had referred to Zeb as his dad. “No. I wasn’t going to have him paint any more. Just that one wall.”
He made his way over to me and I cautioned him to keep his hands clear of the top of the stove.
“Do you like it like that?”
I looked down at him. “Like what?”
“Everything so boring. The red wall is better.”
I bit the inside of my lip and turned my head to look at it. “You’re right. It is better.”
And no, I didn’t like the rest of the house being plain and boring. It was supposed to be soothing and comforting; instead I felt like the entire inside lacked personality and that every single neutral-toned wall mocked me as I walked by it. I sighed and pulled the pan off the heat.