“It’s okay! I never had anyone to talk to growing up. You probably wish I’d stop chattering, huh?”
I shake my head emphatically. “Not for a second. I love talking to you. You’re like my best friend.”
Imogene gasps. “Really?”
Is that lame to admit? I don’t care. I nod. “Really.”
“You’re mine, too. And that’s why I can tell you that I love Laurel like you do. Not because someone showed me how to be a loving nanny, or even a mother. Just because... Well. No one should grow up like I did, with no hugs, no bedtime kisses, no smiles...”
Oh, God. She breaks my heart while owning it. I hurt picturing Imogene like that, and I imagine Laurel without parents who love and protect her, and... I can’t breathe right. Can’t see straight. “I wish I could go back in time and give that little Imogene a happy home with someone to love her. Keep her safe. Make sure she had a great life.”
“I’m not little, but you do that. I do feel happy and safe here.”
I hesitate, moving my chair a little closer. “I hope you feel loved, too. One day. I... I don’t know if I’m any good at showing it. I never had someone to teach me how to—”
“I didn’t think I was allowed to fall in love with someone I’m working for. Or so fast,” Imogene says in a low, furtive voice as she leans closer to me.
“Oh. Probably not.” The words leave my lips like wounded ghosts, wispy and miserable. I’m so bad at this, probably rushing, and I was never smooth to begin with... One of my social workers, one of a dozen, said I’d have trouble with relationships, trouble with “attachment.” Well, yeah, sure, if you feel like no one wants you or needs you. But I need Laurel and Immy. And I wish she needed me, too, but it’s clear she could survive anything, thrive anywhere.
“Lesha told me not to rush. Or do anything rash.”
“She’s right. I know she is. I’m sorry if I—”
“But being with you and Laurel makes me feel loved. If love is when you’re happy all of the time, even if you know things are difficult. Like...” Imogen looks heavenward for a second, “Like, I’m sad when I realize that even if my mother were around, we wouldn’t have a good relationship. That I never had a normal childhood, or things like a favorite memory with Sarah or Barton.” Her voice slips into nothingness. “But then, I think about how you smile at me when you come into the kitchen on your breaks, or how you rush to help me and take Laurel’s diaper bag and my coat when we come in from the park. That kiss. Both of them.”
My hand is sweating against hers. All of me is sweating. My chest is tight.
Who thought love would mimic a panic attack?
“I’m okay with moving fast, as long as we’re taking it nice and slow like this,” Imogene whispers, her eyes barely able to meet mine.
“I’m good with that. I never want to rush you. I just... I’ve never been in love before. Never had someone to love until the two of you.” I rub my sternum with my damp palm. “God, I hope I’m good at this.”
“You are. You’re wonderful at this.” Imogene leans forward, standing in that adorable velvet dress, and kisses me.
“Check, please.” Mr. Argento, the owner of the restaurant and the head (possibly only) chef, slaps a piece of paper on the table.
“I— Oh! Imogene, did you want dessert?” I ask feebly, lips tingly, eyes unfocused as I look at the smiling face of Mr. Argento.
“Tiramisu is already in a container by the door for you two. And anytime you want someone to babysit this little sweetie,” he coos over Laurel as she dozes in her infant carrier strapped to the high chair, “my wife and I volunteer.”
“Thank you!” I’m stunned. Happy. Imogene kissed me. Again!
Imogene is standing up, dabbing her lips, cheeks even pinker than usual. “What do we do next during a date?” she whispers.
“THIS MOVIE SOUNDS SAD.”
“I promise it’s mostly funny.”
Artie and I sit on the couch. Laurel is on his chest, contentedly taking her bedtime bottle.
“But you said a little boy is home alone at Christmas? That’s horrible!”
“You’re right. That is horrible. It’s fictional, so they made it funny, but in real life, it would be awful. We should watch something that’s not sad at all, where no kids get left home alone.”
I’m not in my dress anymore. I’m in my new white flannel pajamas, worn soft and smooth by the previous owners. Artie is in sweats and a t-shirt with the MenuGenius logo. He holds the remote. I snuggle under his arm, and we put on something else.
I don’t even know what’s happening in the movie. Laurel finishes her bottle, and Artie carries her upstairs. When he comes back, we smush together like two puzzle pieces. My heart is thudding. His hand rubs my back gently, as though he’s afraid I’ll tell him to leave. I place my hand possessively on his chest and look up at him, silently wanting another kiss.
