My brain short-circuited. I thought back to our conversation and realized I never gave him a chance to explain why he moved back. “That’s not important. What is important is that you know.”
“Oh.” There again with the confused-but-pretending-to-follow-along voice. “It’s nice that you told me, baby, but you didn’t need to. It’s not like anything happened between you two.”
Xavier knew me well enough to know I would never cheat. But if he really knew me, he’d know that I hated being calledbaby. I associated it with being catcalled by creepy men downtown.
“Right.” I collected our cleared plates from the table. It was an unspoken rule: whoever didn’t cook, washed dishes. “Nothing happened.”
“Hey.” Xavier slipped his hand over mine—no thought or hesitation, just a steady sureness to the gesture. That was also aquality I admired in Xavier: the confidence behind every action. “Did he do something?”
I squeezed his hand once before taking the plates to the sink, dropping the cutlery in, too. “No. There’s nothing he could do now to hurt me anymore.”
“Okay. Good.” He crossed one foot over his knee. Just like that, he was back to listening to the piano emanating from next door. Mozart’s Symphony 40, by the sounds of it.
My parents forced me into piano lessons until I was fourteen. It was whatgood,smartchildren did, according to them. Or more accurately, according to my mother. My dad usually just nodded along and kept quiet.
They didn’t let me quit until my piano teacher gently suggested I might be better suited for other creative pursuits.
Unfortunately, my mother didn’t consider art one of them. Every year in high school, she funneled me into some new “respectable” outlet like poetry, writing, and acting. I was terrible at all of it.
Don’t even get me started on her reaction when I told them I was thinking of majoring in art in college. I’d take a piano to the head, cartoon-style, before reliving that argument.
“Anyways.” I poured soap over the dishes and ran water over a sponge. “Something else happened this week. My partner at the Community Connections Center quit, which means they’re going to have to cancel art class.”
“Oh, that sucks.”
I nodded as I rinsed the plates. “It does. There’s good news, though. The class will be saved if someone volunteers with me.”
I didn’t need to look at Xavier to know he was pulling his frustrated face: puffed-out cheeks, head tilted back in theatrical frustration.
“It’s only a couple of hours Sunday morning,” I rushed toadd. “Just through the end of the year. I’m sure we’ll find a permanent replacement before then.”
“That’s like four months away.”
It was mid-August, so really more like four and a half months, but I wasn’t about to point that out.
“Think of how much time we’ll get to spend together.” I turned to face him, leaning my back against the counter, dishes secure in the drying rack behind me.
“With children.”
“Well, yeah,” I sputtered.
This was not the attitude I had been expecting. Xavier was acting like it was a hassle to spend this extra time with me, not a privilege. I understood it wasn’t an easy request, but wasn’t that how partners helped each other?
“Baby.” He approached me and placed a hand on my cheek. “I totally would if I could, but Sunday mornings are for golf, you know that.”
“Right.” I drew away, choosing to dry the dishes with a rag instead. My hands needed something to do. “I know.”
Xavier pulled the rag out of my hand and set it on the counter. Everything in this kitchen was monochromatic. I felt like my pupils were going to collapse any moment due to the lack of color in the room.
“Are you mad at me?” he asked.
“I’m notnotmad.” Down one rag, I resorted to wringing out my hands. “But I feel like you don’t understand how big a deal this is.”
He narrowed his eyes. “We’re still talking about the art class, right?”
I threw my hands in the air. “Yes. I love that class almost as much as I love art itself.”
“I didn’t realize you were so passionate about art.” He rubbed his hands up and down the sides of my arms. Acomforting gesture, but not enough to soothe the sting of the moment.
