Setting the utensil down on the table, she smiles at me. It’s fake. “Well, thank you, but this isn’t necessary. I’ve been cooking for myself for years.” Reaching out, she picks up the bottle of fat-free French dressing and adds it to her salad. Looking over at Andi, she arches a brow. “You want to try French tonight?”
“Yeah,” Andi says, reaching for the bottle.
She’ll probably like it. It’s sweet.
“So, I’ve decided to store two-thirds of the yield.”
I nod as I bite into my spaghetti. Mm, al dente. A little too al dente, but it’ll have to do. I concentrate on chewing up the semihard noodles before I respond. “Good plan. I’m holding back half, but maybe I should do more.” I nod, thinking about Isabelle’s decision. “Hard to tell what’s going to happen with these fu—” I look at my kid and change my words. “—frigging tariffs.
“I know,” she says, nibbling a small piece of lettuce. She hasn’t touched her spaghetti.
I thought she was hungry.
“You need to eat, babe. You’re gonna lose those soft, round curves.”
Guys, you know what you should never do? Talk about a woman’s body at the dinner table. Or probably anywhere. Why? Well, simple, they don’t like it. Take this, for example. Isabelle’s face didn’t blush this time; no, it went all pale. Scary pale. Then she set the fork down that had a little piece of salad on it and stood up from the table.
“I’m not feeling very well. Would you mind if I call it a night?” She pushes her chair back with her legs. “You can leave the dishes. I’ll get them in the morning.” Turning to make her way toward the stairs, she stops and moves around the table. Leaning down, she kisses the top of Andi’s head. “Sorry, Andi. I’m pooped.”
Andi nods. “See you tomorrow at school.”
“Yep, you sure will.” She won’t look at me as she rounds the table again and makes her way to the stairs. “Night.” Her voice sounds weird when she says that last little word. It cracked.
Fuck.
After Andi and I finish eating, I send her back to the family room to watch a little television while I clean up my cooking mess.
She thinks I’d leave this for her to clean up?Yeah, right.
After everything is put away and washed up, I start the dishwasher and fold up the towel in my hand. Poking my head into the family room, I see she’s watching that pony cartoon. “Andi, I’m going up to check on Isabelle. Back in a minute. Then we need to head home. Yeah?”
“Okay, Daddy.”
Making my way up the stairs, I do my best to step quietly. I’m not trying to sneak up on her, but if she is, in fact, asleep, I don’t want to wake her up. Her door is closed, so I lean in and press my ear to the door to listen. When I do, I hear a sniffle.
Goddamn it. I knew it.
Turning the knob, I push the door open just enough for me to enter; then I close it back up.
“Nash,” she says, sounding stuffed up, “go home.”
I step up to the bed. “Isabelle, we need to talk.”
“No, we don’t.” She rolls over and gives me her back.
Fine. Kicking off my boots, I pull up the blankets and slide in behind her. She tries to scoot away, but her tiny fucking bed is ridiculous. The squeaking alone would drive me mad. I can’t believe she still sleeps in this shit. “You need a new bed.”
“My bed is fine. It’s made forone.” Her voice has gained some strength. Too bad I’m not taking the hint.
I reach my arm out and wrap it around her middle and pull her closer to me. “We’re going to talk now, babe.” She doesn’t rebut me, so I start talking. “Earlier, when you made the snide little comment about ‘one night,’ I was too busy trying to get my dick to settle down to understand what you were insinuating.”
She makes a scoffing noise, but I’m gonna ignore it.
“I think we’re past that one-time bullshit, don’t you?”
She says nothing.
Softening my voice, I whisper, “Babe, will you look at me, please?”
