“Same as my grandparents. Whoever has the most points at the end of the week gets to choose what we do on our weekly date.”
“But we don’t have a weekly date.”
“Well, that’s just another perk of the game. If we play, we get a weekly date.”
“Is that it?”
“No, there’s a big prize too. Whoever wins the most weeks out of the year gets to choose how and where we celebrate our anniversary.”
“And you’d choose…?”
Does he even have to ask? “Paris. If we play, we’re going to Paris in December, just like we’ve always planned.”
He pretends to frown. “I’ve never really wanted to go there. So if we play…and I’m not saying I will, but if, and if I won—which I would—then we’d go deep-sea fishing in Cabo San Lucas. What I wouldn’t give to reel in a two-hundred-pound marlin.”
But…you promised me Paris…
“Fine,” I tell him, not hiding my disappointment. “If you win—which you won’t—you can choose Cabo. But come December, don’t be too disappointed when we’re looking out our window at the Eiffel Tower.”
He chuckles and shakes his head. “Then Cabo it is.”
“So you’ll play?” I can feel myself biting my lip as I wait for his answer.
“Do you really think it will work?”
“I’ll give you the same answer I gave the kids. I read what happened with my grandparents, and I honestly believe it can work for us too…but only if we really try. If we really want to win, then there’s no way we can lose.”
His playful smile suddenly becomes more sincere. “Then I’ll play.” He pauses, then asks, “So are there any rules that I should be aware of?”
I consider giving him a hug to thank him for playing at all, but that would be too bold, given how things have been lately. Instead I smile. “C’mon. Let’s go back to bed and I’ll give you all the details. The biggest thing to remember, though, as the kids quickly discovered, is that it’s better to give than to take…”
When I wake up in the morning Dell’s bed is empty. I check my watch.
Seven thirty.
With a robe on, I slip out of the room and am immediately assaulted by the smell of something burning. Grease, if I had to guess, and it’s left a thick layer of smoke permeating the whole downstairs. I wave my way through it toward the kitchen, where I find Dell standing over the sink with a frying pan, pouring hot grease down the drain.
“Stop!” I scream. “What on earth are you doing?”
He keeps on pouring. “Cleaning up.”
“Dell, stop! You can’t pour that down there. What’s wrong with you?”
I can feel my agitation settling in, right under the skin. This isn’t the first time I’ve told him not to pour grease down the drain. Why doesn’t he learn? Does he just not listen to me? I swear, sometimes he’s worse than the kids. This is just pure laziness…too lazy to dispose of it correctly.
Now he stops and turns around, his expression sinking. “What’s wrong with me?”
“Yes! You know that’ll just clog the pipes. I’ve told you this over and over again. It doesn’t take much to do it the right way.”
“The right way?” he asks defensively. “Or your way?”
“I can’t help it if my way is the right way.”
“It always is,” he mumbles. Something—I can’t tell what—flashes across his face when he says it. He takes a deep breath, then he puts the pan down on a hot pad and folds his arms. I’m expecting him to find something else vindictive to say, since I know I’m already loading my next round of words into the chamber. Instead, he lowers his head and mumbles a barely audible, “I’m sorry, Emily.”
“You’re…what?” I’m so confused. This isn’t how our fights go. It hasn’t escalated far enough yet. Nobody is yelling, though I’m very close. And where is the door-slamming or the name-calling?
“I’m sorry,” he repeats. “You’re right. You’ve told me a dozen times to let it cool in another container. I just…wanted to clean up the mess and get rid of the smell before you woke up.”
Now I’m really confused.
Who is this imposter, and what’s happened to the real Dell Bennett?
“Why?” I ask, almost reluctant to know the answer.
He shrugs. “I wanted to cook you breakfast in bed, but I burned the bacon.”
I am frozen. I can feel my lip starting to quiver—mostly from guilt. And a tear is tugging at the corner of my eye. “Why?” I ask again.