The thing is, Jess’s sense of humor is pretty much the worst Sam’s ever met (even worse than–well. No need to go there), which is why Sam can’t understand how she makes him laugh. Because there’s ‘dad jokes’ and then there’s, well…
“What’s a frog’s favorite drink?”
Sam wants to pull his pillow down over his face, but experience has taught him that things just escalate after that. “It’s too early in the morning,” he tries instead, arm over his eyes. Maybe if he can’t see her, she’ll go away.
“Croaka Cola,” Jess announces. “C’mon, grumpy-pants. Live a little.” She pokes him in the ribs. “What does a wicked chicken lay?” Sam just groans in reply. “Deviled eggs. You know I’m not going to let you out of bed until you laugh. Did you hear about the fire at the circus?”
“You know that I don’t want to get out of bed, right?” Sam tries, but Jess just crawls up on top of him.
“It was in tents.” And, okay, that one’s kind of clever. “Why do cows moo?”
He can’t help it–his brain starts supplying possible answers in a voice that’s not his own. So to shut it up he tries, “To get to the other side?” and pulls his arm down to see Jess’s reaction.
“Because their horns don’t work, silly,” she says, and smacks him on the forehead. “For such a big brain, you’re very bad at jokes.”
“I guess that’s why I have you,” Sam tells her, “though I’m starting to suspect I should get a refund.”
“As if you could ever get rid of me.” Her smile is as warm as the sun streaming through the window. “You really are very bad at jokes, you know.” And Sam’s heart aches for several very different reasons.
“I really am,” he agrees. “I guess you’d better teach me some better ones.”
“I guess I’d better do so,” she agrees, and kisses him on his nose.