“Hmmmm.” I thrummed my chin. “Eight days, really?” I poured my coffee. “And you’ll be, what? Eighteen?”
Clara rolled her eyes good-naturedly, as if she were humoring my joke much above her station. “Five.” She held up as many fingers before she resumed eating her pancakes.
“Five.” I tapped my head. “Remember, Clara’s fifth birthday is in eight days,” I mimed cementing the date as if I hadn’t already. As if I hadn’t been preparing for weeks.
“How many people are coming to the party, Daddy?” Hannah turned to ask him.
“Thirteen or thereabouts.” He gave her the same response he had the numerous other times she’d asked the question.
Her eyes lit up. That was the most people she’d be around since the transplant. Pre-approved by her doctor, who said that as long as it was outside and she was masked, she could have a small gathering.
“Thirteen,” she repeated in awe. “Thirteen presents.”
“You don’t get a present for everyone attending,” Beau growled. But not his real growl, the one he gave me that was full of menace and meanness. No, this was a faux growl, meant to sound mean but we all knew there was nothing behind it. “Your birthday is not about presents. It’s about celebrating, spending time with family and friends.”
Hannah nodded somberly.
“And presents,” I mouthed to her.
She grinned into her pancakes.
“Here. Sit. Eat.”
A plate of pancakes was placed in front of me with no ceremony, the plate coming down so heavily on the counter, I was surprised it didn’t crack.
I glanced over at Beau. He was already across the kitchen from me, as if he were trying to stay as far away from me as possible.
Then I looked at the plate of pancakes in front of me.
It wasn’t just pancakes with a square of butter on top like I was used to from IHOP—the only time I had pancakes made for me by someone else.
No, these were perfectly shaped, covered with a berry compote, and what appeared to be cream or yogurt on the side. It looked restaurant-quality. Which shouldn’t have surprised me since Beau was a chef.
A lot of care had gone into the plate, going directly against every other time Beau interacted with me—like I was annoying him by simply existing. By being in his house.
If he was home at mealtimes, he cooked for Clara. No mac and cheese cups, nothing packaged. All homemade, healthy, beyond delicious. Kinds of foods I’d never heard of before, that I’d never been able to afford, that I couldn’t have even dreamed of.
The best cuts of steaks, colorful salads full of texture and homemade dressing. The freshest fish I’d ever eaten. Lobster rolls on bread made by Beau first thing in the morning. Lobster everything, since it was the family business. Clara rarely had the same thing twice in a row. Every day was a new culinary adventure for her. And if he cooked for Clara, he cooked for me too.
At the start, I’d been thankful and touched, thinking it was a good sign in the progression of our relationship toward cordiality.
I was wrong.
Beau presented the food to me in much the same way as the pancakes, begrudgingly, as if someone were holding a gun to his head.
I’d tried to gently tell him he didn’t need to cook for me, that I’d take care of myself. I’d quickly given up on that because of the flat glares I got in response. They were so full of hostility, fury, that they made me shrink back, trying to make myself as small and quiet as possible. It made me angry, furious, that he managed to have that kind of power over me. And I was embarrassed that I let him treat me that way. That I didn’t leave, or at the very least speak up for myself.
If I wanted to be petty, I could’ve refused to eat them. But that would’ve been criminal because Beau was a seriously good chef. I grew up on things that came out of a package and had tobe microwaved. I’d taught myself how to ‘cook’ out of necessity. I wasn’t exactly good, but I was passable.
When I moved in with Waylon, he expected me to cook. I’d tried to experiment with the Julia Child’s book I’d found at Goodwill, but he’d thrown the plate of Boeuf Bourguignon against the wall and told me not to feed him that “snobby French bullshit” again.
Back to casseroles and meatloaf it was.
Once I was free of Waylon, I ate whatever was cheapest and quickest since I was bogged down with studying. And though the family I nannied for part-time didn’t require a whole lot of cooking, I’d eat whatever and whenever the kids did.
Just the thought of having to cook for Clara made me incredibly intimidated, made me feel poor, uncouth, and nervous. The food she was eating—now that she had her appetite back—was so vibrant and complicated, I doubted I could prepare it. So far, that had not been an issue. Beau prepped all the meals he wouldn’t be around to cook, labeling them neatly in glass containers in the fridge. One for me, one for Hannah. Same with her snacks.
The organization of the fridge was something to behold; it looked like it could’ve been in a magazine or displayed on some rich woman’s social media videos. I was afraid to put any of my own food in there. Not that there was really an occasion for me to buy my own food since Beau fed me so well. I’d never eaten so many fresh, healthy foods. I felt it in my body, I had more energy. Even though my skin wasn’t prone to acne beyond hormonal breakouts, I generally looked better. My eyes were brighter. My body regained its natural curves.
