“Four—for fuck’s sake, Leo!”
“It’s important information! Clarity prevents error.”
“She’s a four-year-old, not a space shuttle.” But Joe’s still smiling, shaking his head. “Poor girl’s gonna take one look at that and run.”
I steal one of Joe’s fries even though I know he hates that. “If she runs, she runs. Better to find out now than three weeks from now when I’m in the middle of the semester.”
“Where’s she from?” Allison asks. “Is she a local?”
“No idea. Vegas? California, maybe? She had that kind of…I don’t know, West Coast thing about her.” I’m realizing as I say this that I know virtually nothing about Annie beyond her name and the fact that she needs a job. “I didn’t really ask.”
“You didn’task?” Maria looks at me incredulously. “You hired someone to take care of your daughter and you didn’t even ask where she’s from?”
“It didn’t seem relevant. I was more focused on whether Emma would try to stab her with something.”
“Fair point,” Joe concedes.
“I’ll find out more tomorrow. Or I won’t. As long as she keeps Emma safe and happy, I don’t really care about her life story.” I finish my soda, the ice rattling in the bottom of the glass. “Although she did make me promise not to micromanage her.”
All three of them burst out laughing again.
“What?” I ask, even though I know exactly what.
“You?” Joe manages between laughs. “Not micromanage? That’s like asking a shark not to swim.”
“I can delegate.”
“Leo, you color-coded Emma’s schedule,” Maria reminds me. “By activity type.”
“Okay? That’s just organizational efficiency.”
“You have a system for how the dishes should be arranged in the dishwasher,” she continues. “And you’ve explained it to me multiple times.”
“There’s an optimal loading pattern that maximizes space and water distribution—”
“See?” Maria gestures at me like I’m proving her point. “This is what I mean. You’re gonna drive this poor girl insane within a week.”
“I’m going to give her space to do her job,” I say firmly. “I can control my natural inclinations toward efficient systems and processes.”
Joe and Maria exchange a look.
“We’ll see, buddy,” Joe says, stubbing out his cigarette. “We’ll see.“
I take a sip of my Coke, letting the carbonation burn slightly on the way down, and decide it’s time to redirect this conversation before they spend the next hour dissecting my entire life. “Enough about me,” I say, pointing at Allison’s very prominent belly. “Did you two finally pick a name for her?”
Joe and Allison look at each other, one of those silent married-people conversations happening in the space of a glance, and then Allison’s face breaks into this huge smile.
“Alyssa Jean,” she says, practically squealing.
“Alyssa Jean Carmichael,” Joe adds, like he’s testing how it sounds out loud.
“Oh my God, I love it!” Maria beams. “Alyssa sounds so chic.”
“I wanted something that kind of went with my name, you know? Allison and Alyssa.” Allison’s rubbing her belly absently, like she’s trying to communicate with the baby through touch. “And Jean is after Joe’s mom.”
“Ma’s gonna cry when she finds out,” Joe says, and there’s genuine affection in his voice when he talks about his mother, who I’ve met exactly twice and who, both times, tried to feed me enough food for a small army, much like my own mother.
“I’m gonna get your names confused on a daily basis,” Joe continues, shaking his head. “But it is what it is.”
