Page 40 of Scoring Chance

“Eggs?” Davy looks to his brother for backup.

“Besides the eggs.” I yank open the fridge door and bend down to find some kind of vegetable. I miss my Subzero fridge, where everything was magically at eye level. Hey now, what’s this? Behind a mostly empty container of hummus, I find a red bell pepper.

A sense of victory fills my chest, similar to the ecstasy of scoring a goal.

“Look what I found!” I show it to my charges.

“I don’t like that,” Lulu says.

“You will.” I find a cutting board and chop up the pepper. I put oil in a skillet and sizzle the vegetable, adding salt and pepper. Whatever cooking knowledge I had growing up starts to come back. Nights of having to fend for myself for dinner because my parents were who-knows-where. The salty aroma of the sautéed pepper fills the kitchen.

“I wanna help!” Lulu jumps down from her chair.

“Me too!” Dean follows.

“Absolutely not,” I say, adding some butter to the skillet. “You can help by staying seated and not burning the house down.”

“Boo,” Dean mutters.

“Actually, do you want to crack the eggs. You know how to do that, right?” I ask the kids.

Lulu and Dean reply with an are you serious? look stamped on their cute faces. The answer is yes, apparently. But they grab a mixing bowl and crack some eggs for me. I pour it into the skillet. I don’t know if Tanner lets them near the stove, but I’d rather play it safe than accidentally set one of his spawn on fire.

Davy finds a block of cheddar from the further reaches, and I have him grate it. The kitchen is humming with activity. The most activity my kitchen would get is pressing the Nespresso button. The mixing aromas of the eggs, pepper, and cheese fill the space, making all of our stomachs growl.

“Uncle Des?” Lulu asks.

“Yeah?”

“Did you and Daddy kiss yet?”

The spatula slips from my hand. “What?”

“You’re married now,” she says matter-of-factly. “Married people kiss. Like in the movies.”

Dean snorted. “Ew, gross.”

I tried to play it cool. “Well, not all married people do everything the same. Your dad and I… we’re taking it slow.”

She rolls her eyes. “You’re so delusional.”

“Do you know what that means?” I laugh, but her nonsensical comment sorta feels spot on. Called out by a five-year-old. Great start to the morning.

“Lena!” Lulu runs to her sister, who sweeps into the kitchen without fully clocking my cooking skills. She slips her backpack onto the counter.

“We’re making omelets,” I tell her.

“Nice. My ride is almost here.” She gives the stove the minorest of glances before opening the pantry and grabbing a Pop Tart from the top shelf.

“We have Pop Tarts?” Dean asks, incredulous.

“Last one.” She winks at him and opens it. She slides him a piece.

“You sure you don’t want something more filling for breakfast? It is the most important meal of the day.” Listen to me. I sound like a total…parent. When the heck did that happen? When I was her age, I treated breakfast as optional.

“Maybe next time, Uncle Des.”

“Suit yourself.” My omelet fold is A-plus work. It’s almost so beautiful, I don’t want to see it get eaten. I slide it over to Davy. I get to work making omelet number two for Dean.