“We went to Nana and Papa’s—I texted you earlier,” I say to the one teenager in the world who never looks at her phone. “Then we did do a bop, around the park.”
Gracie squeezes in beside Emme, and Emme slings an arm over her leg with the casual affection of teenage girls. I’m a little surprised by how quickly they’ve bonded after the nightmare of their first encounter.
“Speaking of five hours”—Reid looks at his watch, no longer a scuffed Timex—“Grace, you and I should head back uptown if you want to change before Dirt Candy. Reservation’s at seven.”
Emme and Gracie exchange a look so subtle, I’m sure Reid didn’t clock it.
But I did.
“No!” Emme says quickly, grabbing on to Gracie’s arm with both her hands. “Don’t leave. Why don’t you guys stay for dinner? Mom and I were going to cook.”
I don’t remember any such plans, but I’ll go along with it if it keeps Reid here. I catch a glimpse of his fingers around the glass, and I am suddenly, ridiculously wistful for just a few minutes earlier. As much as I want to finish what we started, I also don’t want to be left to process what just happened on my own.
More than that, it just feelsrightfor him to stay. And Gracie too.
“I just did a big grocery run,” I say, playing along. “Gracie, I can make a veggie chili, if that sounds good. I think we have some dairy-free cheddar in the fridge.”
“It melts just like real cheese!” Emme adds.
I glance over at Reid, who seems genuinely in the dark about whatever conspiracy the girls are scheming about. The man may be smart, but he’s never been a teenage girl.
“That is, if your dad’s OK with it,” I add. “I don’t want to make you miss the restaurant.”
“Sounds great to me,” Reid says. “Gracie?”
“Yeah, I’m getting sick of restaurant food.” Gracie unfurls herself from the chair, stretches her arms above her head, and makes her way into the kitchen, where I hear cabinets begin to bang open and shut.
I bite back a smile as Emme follows, leaving Reid and me on the couch. Reid runs a hand through his hair and gives me that upside-down smirk. I have to tense my muscles, force my body to stay where I am, not to climb into his lap and rub myself against him like a cat.
“You’re sure this is OK?” I ask. “I don’t want to impose.”
Reid laughs, quietly enough for the girls not to hear. “Lil,” he says into my ear, “you are never going to be an imposition.” The tickle of his warm breath sends a tingle down my neck.
Then he gives me a quick kiss at the corner of my mouth, stands, and holds his hand out to help me up.
XIII
The four of us manage the delicate dance of working together in the kitchen, a potentially disastrous endeavor. This mostly involves Reid and me actually making the food, while the girls perch on the stools and monitor the playlist and sip peach-flavored sparkling water. We cobble together some kind of pantry-dump chili garnished with tortilla chips, plus a green salad mostly made of herbs. Reid makes guacamole. “The secret is in not putting a bunch of unnecessary shit in it,” he says. “Just the avocados, a little bit of sweet onion, salt, and lime juice.”
Watching Reid confidently move between the stove and a cutting board triggers the memory of cooking together in my East Village apartment. It was less a kitchen proper than it was a row of semibroken appliances, but it felt more substantial with Reid maneuvering in it.
Him here, now, unlocks a whole new genre of competence porn. My mouth literally waters as I watch him peel and dice an onion, neatly pile the uniform cubes onto the edge of a big butcher’s knife, and slide them into the pot with one finger.
When the food is almost ready, the girls set the table,complete with cloth napkins, which Emme and I never bother with when it’s just the two of us. Then Emme switches off the overheads, turns on the collection of table lamps scattered around the room—our one rule in the house: no big lights after 5 p.m.—and brings a few taper candles to the table. Gracie produces a sterling-silver lighter that looks like a piece of heavy jewelry from the doll-sized pocket of her low-rise jeans and ignites them.
We sit at the table just as the sun sets. The kitchen floods with rose-gold light. The girls tell us about stumbling upon the anarchist book fair at Judson Memorial Church, where a grandmotherly type in a homemade crocheted vest extolled the virtues of community structured around mutual aid. Emme shares how the woman had stitched each minuscule yellow petal of each of the countless daffodils adorning her vest. Gracie opines about the differences between old New York hippies and old LA hippies. And I watch Reid. I love the way he regards his daughter when she speaks, with genuine interest and care, and that he offers the same respect to Emme.
I know something dangerous is happening here: We’re playing house. It’s seductively easy to imagine doing this every night, to all come together at the end of the day and commiserate around the kitchen table.
I know this delusion is a symptom of my almost-orgasm-addled brain, and it’s ridiculous to entertain it. But I also can’t deny how good it feels to allow myself to want more. To thrust myself into this moment, unburdened by reality.
As Emme shows us the sunflower pins the womandoled out after her lecture (Action, Freedom, Unity, they read), my phone rings from where I left it, face down on the island. When I step away and see it’s James calling, all the goodwill I’d just cultivated vanishes, a swollen balloon popped with a scalpel.
I excuse myself to take the call in my bedroom, and as I turn toward the stairs, I see that Emme’s expression has melted in worry, like she already knows what’s coming.
Protective anger grows inside me, flushing my face with blood.
“Hi,” I say briskly when I answer and close my door. “What is it?”
