Page 63 of Cain

The whole time she’d been married.

I could see her asshole ex saying it was all salt and carbs and would make her puff up.

I couldn’t give a fuck less if she blew up like a balloon.

So I took her order, called for delivery—adding some food on for the club itself—then sat down with Georgie as she chose different colors then started to slice strips off each one.

She couldn’t wait to get started.

And I couldn’t wait to be a part of her excitement. Even if, as time proved as we went on, I had absolutely no skills at even the children’s version of clay.

By the time she had a set of earrings and two magnets—one of those little brownies with the colorful sprinkles we ate as kids, and a hot pretzel, with salt—I had a green blob with red spots.

I caught her looking at it, her lips twitching.

“What are you making?”

“A fool of myself, mostly,” I admitted, getting rewarded with a little laugh. “I’m aiming for a dinosaur. A Christmas dinosaur.”

“You know what might help?”

“What’s that?”

“A head. Hands. Feet. Spines…”

“Hey, you can’t rush art,” I said as there was a knock at the door.

“Hey, man, this isn’t all for you, is it?” Vas asked, holding up all the brown bags full of food cartons.

“No, got stuff for everyone. I’ll come split it up.”

By the time I made it back with our three cartons, drinks, and forks, Georgie had managed to make her own little dinosaur—red with green accents—and sat it next to mine.

“For inspiration,” she said.

So then we ate, listening to the sounds of the party around us, but seeming capable of completely ignoring it as we fiddled with our clay.

I fiddled.

Georgie made a trinket tray with flowers, a detailed apple pie magnet, and three magnets for the club—a red party cup and a couple of pool balls.

“They just need the actual magnets.”

“Sounds like I have another trip to the craft store in my future. Interested in making it a date?”

“That depends.”

“On?”

“Your tolerance level for me stopping and looking at every single thing in the store. I haven’t been in one in ages.”

“Babe, I literally got nothing else to do.”

I would happily trail behind her on a tour of every craft store in New Jersey if she looked half as excited as she’d been for the clay kit.

And it was with that realization that I knew it happened.

I’d lost the bet.