“I think that’s weird too,” I admit and lead her inside, letting her gawk at the tall ceilings and huge windows.
“Grandma’s house is fancy, but this place is like. . .different fancy.”
New fancy, she means. Shiny walls and white counters and lots of light flooding the space.
I head straight for the tea kettle, a habit I hadn’t realized I’d picked up until I’ve already pulled down two mugs while Angel walks around the house unabashedly looking at everything. This must be how I looked at first as Maxim stood still as stone watching me invade his space.
“Maxim reads?”
“Yes, what did you think he did?” I ask. She giggles.
“I don’t know—” She gasps so loud and dramatically I let a spoon clatter to the ground in my move to see what’s wrong. She’s just discovered the cat.
I catch my breath while she coos over the fluff ball. “You got a cat?”
“Maxim’s cat. Her name is Greta.”
“She’s ababy,” Angel drops to the ground in front of the couch and pets Greta who, while not in fact a baby, looks thrilled to preen in front of someone who will lavish her in attention. Dream come true for the little creature.
“Do you want tea or hot chocolate?” I ask.
“Do you have soda?” she asks. “Mom stopped letting us get soda.”
There were three cavities between her and Artie last time they went to the dentist, but I do not remind her.
“I have green juice?” I offer and she looks excitedly into the kitchen.
“I want that, it sounds weird.”
I nod and pour us both glasses, the mugs forgotten on the counter. She winces and scrunches her face at the first taste, but immediately goes back for a second and looks like she likes it a bit more this time.
“Kinda sour.”
“She puts lemon in it,” I explain.
“Who?”
I lower my voice. “Elise. Our chef. She is very nice, and very blonde.”
“Is she your friend?”
I think about the question for a moment instead of defaulting to no. I don’t call many people my friends, all of my friends are my family. But I suppose Sasha has become friendly enough, andsomething about Elise makes me loathe myself, but she is very sweet to me.
“I don’t have many friends,” I say simply. Angel takes a bigger sip, leaving a green rim of juice around her upper lip.
“Nate is your friend,” she says. “Mom told me you guys hang out all the time.”
“Nate doesn’t count,” I deny.
“Are you friends with Maxim?”
“Maxim is my husband.”
“But mom always calls Dad her best friend. I asked her if Nate and Vanessa were best friends though and she said no because Nate isyourbest friend.”
I laugh out loud at this, and she joins me, her giggle still as sweet to me as it was when she was a tiny baby and laughing at anything.
“Then yes, they’re all my friends, except for on the days Nate annoys me. Then he’s my enemy.”
