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We get our ice creams—including the special doggie one—Pooch Creamery Peanut Butter—that the owner keeps in the freezer for us and other dog-loving families.
We settle into our usual booth by the window, sunlight streaming across the checked tablecloth. August dives into his ice cream with focused enthusiasm, already developing a chocolate mustache that he’s blissfully unaware of. Brielle catches my eye and swipes at her own upper lip. Our silent code for “your kid has food on his face.” I shake my head—let him enjoy it a bit longer.
“So,” I say, taking a small, civilized bite of my supposedly boring vanilla, “how was chess club yesterday?”
August’s eyes light up behind his glasses. “Amazing! I beat Mr. Gonzalez.”
“Your teacher?” Brielle says, impressed. “The one who was the state champion?” She leans down and gives Onion her special container.
August nods vigorously. “He said I have ‘remarkable spatial reasoning’ and ‘unexpected strategic depth.’” He pronounces the phrases carefully, clearly quoting verbatim. “But then Ethan said it was just beginner’s luck, which is illogical because I’ve been playing chess since I was four, which is definitely not a beginner.”
“Ethan sounds jealous,” Brielle says matter-of-factly. “In the writers’ room, we call that ‘projecting insecurities onto others’ success.’”
August considers this, taking a thoughtful lick of his ice cream. “Is that like when villains in Marvel movies always think the heroes are just like them, but really they’re not?”
“Exactly like that.” Brielle nods. “Great parallel.”
I watch the exchange with a familiar sense of awe. Brielle never talks down to August, never simplifies concepts for him. She treats his ten-year-old thoughts with the same respect she’d give an adult, and he flourishes under that respect. It’s one of the million reasons I love her.
“Dad, did you know Brielle’s show might win an Emmy?” August pivots topics with characteristic abruptness. “She told me this morning when you were in the shower.”
“Is that right?” I turn to Brielle, eyebrows raised. This is news to me.
She blushes, focusing intently on separating her two ice cream flavors with her spoon. “It’s not official yet. Just industry chatter.”
I smile “Well, then I won’t jinx it with a congratulations—yet.”
“Thank you. No jinxes allowed.”
“Can we watch a movie tonight?” August cuts in. “The one about robots taking over the world but then learning to love?”
“You’ve seenThe Wild Robotseventeen times,” I point out.
“Eighteen would be an even number,” he counters with flawless kid logic. “And Onion loves that movie. She always sits right in front of the TV when it’s on.”
“You make excellent points,” Brielle says. “Robot movie it is.”
August whoops and resumes his forward trajectory, narrowly avoiding a collision with a lamppost.
“He’s right, you know,” I say quietly to Brielle. “You do fit right in.”
She squeezes my hand three times in quick succession—our shorthand for “I love you.”
I squeeze back four times—our addition to the code. “I love you more.”
With my son’s excited chatter leading the way and Brielle’s hand warm in mine, we head home through the golden Atlanta evening, ready for robots, bedtime stories, doggie bedtime routines, and whatever adventures tomorrow brings—one scoop, one day at a time.