Once Upon A Half-Time 1(35)

Lachlan called for a truce, Sebastian tossed a pillow, and the war was on.

Lachlan grabbed the kid and carried him, struggling, onto the patio and toward the pool. Sebastian shouted Uncle from the edge of Lachlan’s diving board.

I’d managed to pulverize half of the onion, sawing through the rings with the tines of the fork and crisscrossing enough pulp out to make a serviceable sauce.

The boys returned as I stared at the garlic. Lachlan peeked over my shoulder, close enough to kiss. He didn’t.

I think I was disappointed.

“This has to be minced,” I said. “Any ideas?”

Lachlan motioned for me to wait and hurried off through the house, Sebastian in tow. He returned with a razor from his bathroom.

“Seriously?” I said.

“It’s clean. I changed the blade.”

“Oh, good. Otherwise this would be weird.” I aimed the razor at the bulb of garlic, meticulously skinned thanks to time, patience, and fingernails. The razor peeled off the garlic in thin strips, and I shrugged. “This will work. What’s next?”

Lachlan found a pot and set it on the stove. He lit the pilot and cranked the heat. “Oil in the pot.”

“Have any?”

“Plenty.”

“Not baby oil.”

“Oh. Then I’m not sure.” He rooted through the pantry and found a bottle of olive oil. “Aha.”

I indulged his grin and watched as he uncapped the bottle, danced with the container to the stove, tilted it with a flourish—

And promptly poured the oil over the stove top instead of in the pot.

“Whoops.” Lachlan nearly dropped the bottle. “Get a towel?”

I sighed. “You’re like a mini-tornado in the kitchen, you know that?”

I handed him a towel, and he sopped up the mess. “But you think it’s cute.”

“Yep. You’re like a helpless little puppy.”

“But you like puppies.”

“I like dinner more.”

“I promised you food, we’re getting food—”

Lachlan turned away from the stove just long enough for Sebastian to shout. The oil soaked towel rested over the gas-lit burner and immediately singed, blackened, and then pop! Erupted into flame.

“Whoa!” I nearly dropped the shredded onions and garlic. “Lachlan!”

Sebastian’s fire safety lessons kicked in. He shouted from the middle of the kitchen. “Get out quick before the smoke gets thick!”

Lachlan grimaced. “Sit, Bast. I’ve got it.”

He really didn’t. I backed away as he flipped off the stove and beat at the rag with a second towel—which also promptly licked the flames and singed.

“Smother it!” I said. “It’s got oil on it!”

“A fire that is small is soon to be tall!”

Lachlan grabbed a pair of tongs from the drawer, picked up the burning rags, and rushed around the kitchen searching for an appropriate container. I slammed a second frying pan on the counter just as the smoke detector buzzed, his phone started to ring, and the first-round draft choice of the Ironfield Rivets nearly scorched his multi-million dollar hands.

“Stay low and go!” Sebastian dropped to the floor and started crawling away.

Lachlan stuffed the burning rags into the pan, popped the lid on, and pointed to his brother.

“Not a word of that to Mom.”

Sebastian’s eyes got big. “Stop, Drop, and Roll!”

I screeched, batting at an ember on Lachlan’s vest that nearly torched through. He swore, ripped the vest off, and stomped out the lick of flame.

He turned off the smoke alarm with a code from his phone and breathed deep.

“Burned to death. Starved to death.” I shook my head. “This kid won’t make it back to his mom.”

Lachlan gestured to the pot. “Yeah, but it’s ready for the onions and garlic now.”

Sebastian pouted. “Can’t we just order pizza?”

“Elle, grab the matches. Someone hasn’t learned to keep his mouth shut.”

I smacked his arm. Lachlan motioned to the kid.

“I got my eye on you.”

“I got two on you.” Sebastian countered with a stuck-out tongue.

I dropped the veggies into the pot and gave it a stir. That made the kitchen smell a bit better. After a few minutes, without fire or any other imminent danger, we dropped in the tomatoes. A little salt, little pepper, an accidental half-container of oregano courtesy of Lachlan, and we had a respectable dinner nearly prepared.

Ten minutes later, the noodles were pulled from the water, and we offered Sebastian a plate of spaghetti dressed in a delicious, bright red marinara sauce.

He stared at the food.

Silence. I held my breath.

“It’s chunky,” he finally said.