“I stand by it.”
Maisie watches this exchange with the laser focus of a tiny detective. I know that look. It means she’s about to say something that will either be hilarious or mortifying, with no in-between.
“Tori,” she says, twirling her fork with exaggerated casualness, “do you think my dad is handsome?”
And there it is.
Tori chokes on her wine. I close my eyes briefly, wondering if it’s possible to die of secondhand embarrassment.
“Um.” Tori dabs at her mouth with a napkin. “That’s... a very direct question.”
“Hannah says he’s handsome,” Maisie adds, nodding.
Great. So my middle-aged nanny has apparently been checking me out. That’s not uncomfortable at all.
“She told her friend on the phone that he looks like a ‘romance novel cover,’” Maisie continues, making air quotes. “What’s a romance novel?”
“Nothing,” I say quickly. “Eat your pasta.”
Hannah—sweet, matronly Hannah who bakes cookies and does crossword puzzles—discusses my looks with her friends. Cool. Great. Love that for me.
Tori’s cheeks are pink, but she’s smiling. “Your dad is... yes. He’s handsome.”
“Ha!” Maisie points her fork at me triumphantly. “I told you.”
“You told me what? We’ve never discussed this.”
“I told Sophie you were handsome, and she said her mom thinks so too, and I said obviously because you’re my dad.” She shrugs as if this is perfectly logical. “So I was right.”
I take a very long sip of wine.
Tori’s shoulders are shaking with silent laughter. When I catch her eye, she mouthssorryat me, but she doesn’t look sorry at all.
“Do you have a boyfriend?” Maisie asks Tori, pivoting without warning.
“Maisie.”
“What? It’s just a question.”
Tori sets down her fork, giving the question serious consideration. “No. I don’t have a boyfriend.”
“How come? You’re really pretty.”
“Thank you. I’ve just been... busy with work.”
Maisie nods sagely, as if she understands the demands of a professional career. “Daddy doesn’t have a girlfriend either. He says he’s too busy, but I think he’s just scared.”
I’m going to ground this child until she’s thirty.
The table goes quiet for a moment. Tori’s eyes meet mine, and there’s a whole conversation happening in that look—one we can’t have out loud, not here, not with Maisie watching us like we’re the most interesting show on television.
“More pasta?” I ask, because I’m a coward.
“Please.”
I serve her another helping, and our fingers brush when I pass the plate. It’s nothing—barely a touch—but I feel it everywhere.
“You guys keep looking at each other funny,” Maisie observes.
