#tui

No sooner does Eddie step foot through the front doorway is his three-year-old son scrambling in from the kitchen, nearly tripping over himself to get to Eddie. 

Hendrix Munson stands in front of him, arms and legs splayed out wide like a starfish. That is, if starfish wore Hot Wheels t-shirts stained with peanut butter. 

“Do not come in the kitchen!” Hendrix warns. The peanut butter, Eddie notices, also sticks to his fingers. 

“Oh, yeah?” Eddie puts his hands on his hips. “And why, pray tell, can I not go in the kitchen in my own home?”

“Because,” Hendrix lets out an indignant sigh, “we’re doing a ‘sembly line, but you can’t see it.”

Harris’ voice calls out, “It’s assembly line, Hen. Emphasis on the ‘ass.’” He bursts out laughing, and Eddie bites the inside of his cheek to keep from joining in. 

“Harris! Language!” You put down the slice of bread you’re holding and look sharply at your twelve-year-old son. The last thing you need is to get another reprimanding from Hendrix’s daycare about his use of swear words. You already had to have a talk with Wayne after Hendrix called one of his little friends a sumbitch. 

“Sorry,” Harris grumbles, but a hint of a smirk plays on his lips. 

Eddie turns his attention back to the tiny security guard that blockades his path. “When can I come in? Or should I change my name to Daddy the Banished?”

You smile as you finish cutting the final sandwich on a diagonal. You made sure to prepare everyone’s favorites: turkey and cheese for Eddie, egg salad for Wayne, peanut butter and jelly for Harris, and peanut butter no jelly for Hendrix. Your own sandwich was already safely tucked away in the picnic basket, along with a fruit salad, a package of Oreos, and a bottle of iced tea. 

“Go change into something comfortable.” You kiss your husband gently, leaving your lips and his with a lingering smile. “We’re going to be late.”

“Late for what?” But his question falls on deaf ears as you usher the boys outside, before either of them can spill the beans. 

Eddie sighs, but his grin betrays whatever annoyance he’s trying to portray. Before this—before you and the little family you’d created with him—spontaneity was rarely a good thing. Spontaneity meant that his deadbeat father was out of prison and begging for a place to stay. It meant an unexpected bill or Harris getting sick and needing to go to the doctor. 

Now, spontaneity means a Father’s Day surprise. One that apparently involves picking Wayne up from his trailer, Eddie soon learns. Happiness bubbles up from his chest when his sons greet their grandfather. The two of them talk over each other, eager to fill Wayne in about their week.

“Grampa, are you wearing your ears?” Hendrix pipes up from his carseat.  

Wayne chuckles and taps just below where his hearing aid sits. “Always. Gotta make sure I can hear my boys.”

Eddie refrains from scoffing. His uncle makes it sound like wearing hearing aids was a mutual decision rather than what it really was: a years-long, back-and-forth argument. It culminated in Wayne finally caving when Eddie gave him the ultimatum of wearing hearing aids or not being able to watch Harris and Hendrix. 

A few minutes later, you pull the sedan into a familiar parking lot. Beside you, Eddie raises his brows. 

“My Father’s Day surprise is at the park?” He lets out a low whistle. “This place reminds me of when I used to sell—lemonade,” he quickly amends. A flush of crimson paints his cheeks at his near-admission. 

Hendrix is practically vibrating in his carseat as he pleads, “Mommy, can we tell Daddy and Grampa about the surprise now?”

You laugh, knowing that he’ll explode from excitement if you say no. “Go ahead.” 

“We’re having a picnic! Me an’ Harris an’ Mommy made sandwiches with an ass-embly line!”

Wayne’s eyebrows nearly hit his scalp. “You made sandwiches with a what now?”

“Ass-embly line,” Hendrix states matter-of-factly. “Like Harris took out the bread, Mommy put stuff in the sandwiches, and I closed them.”

Harris presses his forehead to the window, cheeks puffed out as he holds in his laughter. He lets out a yelp when Wayne good-naturedly flicks him behind the ear. 

“Well, I’m excited.” Eddie says from the passenger seat. “Food and my favorite people? Count me in.”

You snag the first available table; Wayne’s already proclaimed that he can sit down on the grass but without a guarantee he’ll get back up. He sits next to Eddie, across from you and the boys. 

Harris divides the plates between everyone as you dole out the sandwiches, keeping a close eye on your younger son who has set his sights on the Oreo package.

“Hey, Grampa?” Hendrix asks, finally having relented on the idea of having dessert before lunch.

“Hay is for horses.”

Hendrix giggles, taking another sticky bite of his peanut butter sandwich. “No, Grampa. Can you tell us another story about when Daddy was little?”

Eddie groans in protest, but Wayne launches into the tale without hesitation. “Y’know, I had a feeling you were gonna ask for another story. I came prepared.” His tired eyes gleam with mischievous excitement. “Did I ever tell you about the time your dad wanted to build a treehouse?”

Both boys shake their heads.

“Well.” Wayne places his sandwich on the plate and brushes the crumbs from his weathered hands. “He was about your age, Har. And I dunno where he got the idea from. But all of a sudden he’s barging into my room and tellin’ me that he’s gonna build a treehouse. Except…we were livin’ in the trailer park. We didn’t have any trees. We didn’t even have a yard. Of course, I couldn’t talk him out of it–”

“So what happened?” Harris interrupts, jumping to his feet impatiently.

Wayne puts his hand up and chuckles. “Gimme a second, Har Bear. I’m getting there. Anyway,” he takes a sip of iced tea, “I was tired from working doubles, so I took a nap. When I wake up, he’s outside the trailer, kneeling in front of a bush and trying to duct tape together some two-by-fours.”

You glance at your husband in disbelief. “You tried to tape the boards together?”

“Couldn’t find the old man’s tool kit,” Eddie grumbles. Embarrassment flushes his cheeks pink.

“Thank God for small miracles.” Wayne shakes his head. “Anyway, I call out to him, I go, ‘Ed, what the he–heck are you doing?’ and without missing a beat, he goes, ‘building a bush house.’”

Harris and Hendrix burst out laughing. The sound of your boys so happy makes your heart soar. Every time you hear it, you’re hit with a wave of gratitude that you wish you could ride out forever.

“Dad, a bush house?” Hendrix manages through a laugh. “That is so silly!”

“I was bored!”

“You should’ve played your GameBoy,” Hendrix says. He clumsily reaches for an Oreo but yanks his hand back when he catches you tracking his movement.

“Dad’s old. He didn’t have GameBoys when he was a kid,” Harris reminds his brother. He scrunches up his face and looks at Eddie. “Did you even have electricity back then?”

Eddie balks in offense. “It was the 1970s, not the 1770s!” He smirks. “Grampa is so old that they didn’t even have microwaves when he was born. Or color TVs.”

The boys gawp at their grandfather, barraging him with questions about if he lived in a log cabin or ever saw a dinosaur. Out of the corner of your eye, you see him discreetly flip off his nephew.

Eddie swallows a mouthful of deli turkey and presses a kiss to your temple. “You know that I adore you, right?” His murmur is only loud enough for you to hear. This is what he always wanted–this time spent with family, creating memories, holding a space where everyone felt safe to learn and grow and make mistakes.

You smile and turn to him, kissing him right on the lips with a smacking mwah. “I know.”