I open the streaming app on my phone and turn on my favorite rock station, then pause it.
Does Ziggy like rock?
Is she more of a Waverly Sweet or Levi Wilson fan?
Does she listen to French rock? Not only did I notice her foreign podcast in the car the other day, I also heard her doing a language app before bed last night. She could’ve picked up some favorite artists in Europe the past few years, but I couldn’t begin to guess who she might like. I don’t even know who exists.
Maybe classic something is better. Aren’t babies supposed to listen to classical music in the womb to get smarter? Silas was babbling about that being why his daughter can already read small words before starting kindergarten this coming school year.
But does Ziggy’s baby already have ears?
I’m bent over my phone, researching when babies can hear while in utero, when I hear Jessica’s tags jingling on her collar and the normalthump thump thumpof her thick little body navigating the stairs.
Fuck it.
I close my browser, switch back to the streaming app, and put on Waverly Sweet.
Then I turn it down nearly all the way and shove my phone out of reach so I can say it started playing on its own if she thinks it’s odd or unusual.
Fuck me.
I’m being odd and unusual.
Jessica trots into the kitchen. I straighten and hop in acircle on one foot so I’m leaning against the counter instead of hunching over it.
“Morning,” I say to Ziggy.
Her hair’s a slightly damp mass of curls hanging all over her shoulders, and she’s in a patterned, colorful blouse and fancy pants that I honestly don’t know the color of. They’re not tan. Not gray. Is that mauve? Is that what mauve is?
And you’re finishing my house. This is a disaster, I hear Caden say.
I know the basic rainbow.
He knew paint chips and could identify forty-three different shades of yellow. When I told Ziggy that Caden’s designer picked stuff, I was lying.
He had a strong hand in it himself.
It’s just easier to distance myself sometimes so it hurts less that he’s gone.
She smiles at me, and my heart thumps hard.
“Morning,” she says. “I didn’t know if you’d be up. If you don’t want to get up so early, I can just leave something to be reheated in the fridge. In a bag. I know that’s easier to carry with the crutches. Yes, Jessica, I’m coming. I know.I know. Here.”
She disappears onto the porch, then returns a moment later without the dog.
And I suddenly have no idea what to say to this woman.
I had a list before I went to sleep last night.
First day, huh?
When did you know you wanted to be a chef?
You don’t have to go to the store. I’ll order through the app.
I don’t want to say any of that.
“You a morning person?” I finally blurt.
