Jana watched as Damon inspected the ice cream cone he’d been handed, a serious frown on his small features as he turned it this way and that, then leaned in to sniff.
“He’s never had ice cream before?”
Jana favoured Tyler with a pinched smile. “Grandmother doesn’t believe in indulging children. I didn’t have it until I was twelve.”
“And how old’s he?”
“Six.”
Tyler grunted. “Plenty old enough, but I’ll apologise now for the sugar rush.”
In Damon’s hand, a trickle of melting ice cream inched down the cone. Tyler called out. “You’d better lick that before it gets on your hand.”
Damon glanced over, alarmed, then tentatively licked the cone. His eyes went wide, and he licked again, this time up to the scoop of ice cream at the top of the cone. “This is great, Mum! I like it even more than fruit pudding.”
“That’s nice, darling, try not to make a mess.”
Damon grinned, a white creamy clown smile already ringing his mouth.
Tyler leaned back, watching. Jana waited for him to make some comment, something she could snap at, argue with, or dismiss. He said nothing, his expression thoughtful. What could he be thinking? Her own head spun with scenarios and suppositions, most of which were ridiculous – of course they were – but she couldn’t stop them playing through her worst fears.
As Damon finished the ice cream cone, crunching down through the last little bit, Tyler stood. “There’s a playground two blocks down if you want him to run off some of that energy.”
“And then what?” Jana hated the strain in her voice.
Tyler frowned. “And then we talk about when we can meet up again, give me a chance to get to know our kid.”
The DNA of Stories 