Page 91 of Into the Dark
He shakes his head without taking his eyes off his task. “Mummy doesn’t like them,” he says, moving to stand and turn the plastic food bag inside out to shake the last of its contents onto the murky surface. It causes a little flurry of activity among the winged collective. “It’s all gone,” he informs the ducks before standing up and turning to me.
I take his empty bag and give him my own bag, which is still full, and suggest to him to stand farther back from the water’s edge and throw it further in. There are a group of smaller ducks who haven’t been brave enough to come near us yet.
He does as I instruct with loud noises of exertion, and soon the second bag of food is gone too and he’s apologizing to the ducks while adorably holding both hands out to show them the sad state of affairs. When they realize he’s telling the truth, they gradually start to lose interest and begin swimming back to the safety of the group, discarding the generous little boy by my side.
When we finally turn to make our way back up the small incline, we find Jake lounging back on the blanket I packed, the bright red football resting between his legs as he scrolls through his phone. He’s munching hungrily on a bright red apple, also from the basket. Caleb immediately starts to run toward him, practically throwing himself on top of his father with a loud squeal. Jake groans in an exaggerated fashion, pretending to look and sound winded before moving to wrap his arms around him.
“That fun?” he asks, turning his head to me. He has his sunglasses back on, so I can’t see his eyes, but his mouth is soft.
“Ducks are greedy! They ate everythinnnnng. They are soooooooooo greeeeedyyyy!”
“Greedier than you?” Jake asks.
“I’m not greedy,” Caleb retorts.
“For ice cream you’re the greediest,” Jake says, puffing out his cheeks and pushing out his stomach, resting the apple on his chest.
Caleb giggles and starts poking at Jake’s stomach.
“Here, mate, you should see what Alex brought for us to eat—look.” He sits up and directs Caleb to the basket while I take a seat next to them on the blanket.
“I didn’t know what you’d like, so I got a selection,” I explain. I packed it this morning after Jake left and stuck it in Rob’s fridge so it wouldn’t turn in the heat of the car. The sandwiches are cheese because everyone likes cheese, even children. I’ve brought yogurts too and lots of fruit. Apples and grapes and melon and mango—the latter of which I’ve cut up into little squares.
Caleb inspects the contents curiously before Jake moves him out of the way and pulls out the bottle of Ed’s homemade cloudy lemonade—and the squash for Caleb—and the plastic picnic plates and cups and sets them all in the middle of the blanket. Then he pulls out the box containing the sandwiches and pops it open, holding it out for me first, then Caleb, before taking one for himself. There’s a small tub of olives in there too, which were mainly for me, and perhaps Jake because I still haven’t gotten to the bottom of his olive persuasion. For the grown-ups I packed some hams and an assorted antipasti selection that I don’t for a second think Caleb will look at.
We eat and drink in relative silence, Jake stealing numerous glances at me before reaching across to stroke my thigh or my hand when Caleb is distracted with his food. I notice he looks away from Caleb for only short periods at a time, his eyes always traveling back dutifully after a moment or two. It’s automatic. And captivating to watch. When he isn’t looking at Caleb or me, he looks around us, seemingly assessing anyone who gets too close with a look of alert suspicion. It’s a new side to him I haven’t seen yet, but it’s also very Jake-like. This in-built protectiveness he has is very much a part of him. I’ve seen flashes of it before. It manifests differently with me, but it’s there. He protects what’s his. He’ll protect our child too. Love it unconditionally. I have no doubt about it.
Like Jake, Caleb is a neat eater. He takes small, almost delicate bites of his sandwich and chews fully before swallowing, alternating with sips from his juice carton. When his dad offers him a grape he nods and opens his mouth, letting him put it inside before chewing away contentedly.
“Good?” Jake asks him.
Caleb nods, waiting until he’s completely swallowed it before speaking. “Yeah,” he says.
“Say thanks to Alex for feeding us then,” Jake says softly.
“Thanks, Alex,” he says shyly to me.
“You are most welcome.” I smile, reaching across to open the small tub of Spanish olives stuffed with pimento.
“Now you,” Caleb says to his father. “You have to say thanks too.”
I laugh softly before popping the olive into my mouth. Then I level an expectant stare on Jake.
“Thanks, Alex,” Jake says, smiling.
“You’re very welcome too.” I nod, holding out the olive tub to him. I hold my breath as he inspects the contents rather absently before selecting one nestled in against the side, his mouth turned up slightly in faint curiosity.
And then, finally, after months of wondering, I get my answer to the olive question.
First, Jake’s mouth twists up in utter distaste, and then he groans loudly, leaning over the edge of the blanket to spit the half-chewed olive back out. The reaction causes Caleb to burst into a fit of loud giggles, and he rolls dramatically onto his side as he points and continues to laugh at his dad.
So Jake isn’t an olive lover. It’s crushing.
Well, it would be difficult for him to be any more perfect than he is already.
He shoots me an accusatory look and wipes the taste from his mouth, lifting his blue cup of lemonade, which he proceeds to gargle. Caleb continues to laugh at him, and since it’s a cute, contagious laugh I join in a second later.
“Jesus, baby, why didn’t you tell me it was an olive? I hate them. They’re evil. Like Jesus fuck, how can you eat them?”