We march to the bathroom and brush our teeth. I make the conscious decision to be the one responsible for her hair, and I create the most intricate of French braid pigtails I’ve ever produced.
I do accidentally snap at Tita Gloria when she tries to kick me out of the kitchen, but that is quickly remedied by her slipping atsinelasoff her foot and smacking me in the arm with it. But I don’t leave. I make the conscious decision to stay in the kitchen. Because I am an Involved Parent.
I feel a little giddy, filled with that restless anticipation that used to come from having a crush in high school. Like a simmering, buzzing, just underneath the surface of my skin, and it’s not a bad feeling at all.
It’s kind of fun.
“You look like sh—poop,” Ollie tells me, walking into the kitchen and totally killing my vibe. “Why don’t you go back to bed?”
“I have to work,” I reply. I make a conscious decision to not add on, “and I want to see Lina before it starts.”
I need something to do with my hands, so I risk anothertsinelasattack and pick up a knife and start chopping.
“Daddy, I’m missing one of my pink socks,” Frankie informs me.
“Why do you need socks? It’s like eighty degrees out.”
She takes one of those deep, shuddering breaths that indicates that I have asked a completely unreasonable and inappropriate question and that she is seconds from losing it.
“It’s all part of the Missing Sock conspiracy theory,” Georgia quickly chimes in.
Frankie turns her body, interest piqued. I’ve never been so grateful to be on vacation with a group of elementary school teachers. “What’s that?”
“Lina can tell you all about it,” Georgia says.
The hairs on the back of my neck rise. My heart rate goes up.
A moment later, I feel a hand brush my lower back, hear a whispered, “Hey.” I glance down at Lina’s radiant, glowing face, shining brighter than anything in the kitchen. It takes all my effort not to lean down and kiss her.
She smiles up at me knowingly, which is not enough. “The missing sock conspiracy theory is?—”
“What’s a conspiracy theory?” Frankie demands to know.
Lina doesn’t miss a beat while my brain remains ten steps behind because I am very busy staring at her mouth. I can’t believe it was on me. “A conspiracy theory is like a fake story some people tell when they think a group is keeping a big secret. Even if there’s no proof.”
I nod and agree with whatever she just said.
“So what’s the fake sock story?”
Lina nudges me away from the cutting board and resumes my task. Because I have ceased all deliberate thought and action. “Since people are always losing socks, there is a conspiracy theory that laundry machines eat them up. And then the laundry machine breaks. So then people are forced to buy new socksandnew laundry machines.”
I come back to myself and take a seat on one of the bar stools by the counter so I can dedicate all my attention and working memory to looking at Lina. At the lush curves of her body, her delicate fingers, the bronze of her skin.
“Stop staring at me,” Lina whispers.
“I tried. It’s impossible,” I mutter under my breath.
“That’s dumb,” Frankie says, not about the staring, but about the conspiracy theory.
I think the conversation moves on while I continue my conscious decision making.
I’m going to figure out a way to balance everything.
I need to figure out a balance because there is no way I will be able to keep my hands off of Lina.
I need to figure out how to get Frankie to stay in this house without me tonight.
* * *
