“Sure,” I tell her. “We can tape them up after dinner.”
“Let’s clean this up so we can get ready to eat then,” Skylar suggests.
“Okay,” Zoey singsongs.
Skylar bobs her head to the side, and I follow. “She told me she wanted to draw a picture of her mom. That she used to draw a lot with her and had pictures all over her walls. I remember one of the art therapy workers making paper people with the kids on the floor a few months back, and I thought this might be a fun way to do that. She showed me which box had all of her art stuff in it. I hope that’s okay. She seemed excited to do this.”
Something warm and unexpected blooms in my chest. For seven months, it’s been me trying to navigate Zoey’s grief alongside my own. Much the way it did with the fairy lights last week. Having someone else in this space, someone who seems to instinctively understand what my daughter needs, is both a relief and a complication.
“Thank you,” I say, the words inadequate but sincere. “It was really kind of you to take the time to do that with her.”
She waves me off as if it was nothing when it’s actually everything, then gestures toward the kitchen. “There’s lasagna in the oven. It’s my aunt Elle’s recipe, which means it’s amazing. Zoey told me she likes lasagna.”
I squint at her accusingly so I don’t kiss her. “Are you trying to be nice to me?”
She laughs and tosses her hands up. “Not really, no. But I like your kid.”
“Not me,” I state, not as a question.
“Definitely not you. I’m a nurse for a reason. We think doctors are shmucks.”
I choke. “Shmucks?”
“It’s Yiddish. Dr. Schwartz taught me it. He’s my favorite intensivist.”
“Are you sleeping with him too?”
I get a glare mixed with an eyebrow raise. “Too?”
“Josh.”
She visibly stiffens as if she doesn’t want to talk about him. “No. Dr. Schwartz is older than my father, so ew. And Josh… no.”
There’s a lot there I want to question but don’t feel deserving of the answers to. Especially after all she’s done for Zoey tonight, who’s making an obscene mess of trying to clean up but is trying all the same simply because Skylar asked her to. We’ve been living together for over a week, but I haven’t seen her much. We dodged each other effectively, and either she or Zoey and I were out much of the weekend, and this week was busy for all of us.
“You’re very interested in my sex life, Doctor. Is that to report back to Micha or for your own personal knowledge?”
“I just want to know who you’re going to be dragging in and out of the house while we live here together.”
“Dragging?” She laughs. “They come crawling.” She gives me a wink.
“Ah, but they don’t make you come when they do.”
She huffs. “What is it with you and my friends being so obsessed with a man getting me off? They’re orgasms. I can’t imagine they’re all that different from the ones I give myself.”
Heat sears through me at the thought of her getting herselfoff, but before I can explore that, the timer on her phone goes off. Thank god, right?
“Oh. The lasagna.” She flies over to her phone to shut off the alarm and then heads into the kitchen.
I follow her, watching as she slides on oven mitts and retrieves a bubbling dish that fills the air with the scent of tomato and herbs.
“You didn’t have to do this,” I say.
“I like cooking. Stella and Aunt Elle used to teach Roman and me when we were kids. You’d never believe the concoctions he and I created over the years.”
I can’t help my grin. “Your family is...”
“The best?” she finishes for me. “For sure.”
