The front door slams, and I push him off by his chest. “You’ll have to put it on hold a little longer.”
He grumbles, but as soon as Bell enters the kitchen, his glower vanishes. “How’s it feel to be seven years old, kiddo?”
She twirls. “Amazing. I feel like a new person.” Everyone in the room smiles, and Bell notices, batting her lashes at each one of us. “Daddy, I know what I want for my birthday.”
Andrew looks suddenly terrified, as if she just told him she could see dead people and there was one right over his head. “But—your birthday is now,” he says, and I hear the stress in his voice. “I already got your gifts.”
Unperturbed, she continues, “I want a silk dress, just like Mila’s.”
Slowly, Andrew turns his head to me, his eyes accusing. “Is . . . that . . . so?”
“I may have introduced your daughter to designer fashion.” I grimace. “To be fair, that’s a love you’re born with. She would’ve discovered it eventually.”
“I see.” He looks around the room, taking stock. “Well . . . I’m thinking a dress like that is pretty expensive. I suppose I could take back all your gifts, and exchange them for one—”
“No,” she says quickly, jumping up and down. “Next year. I want it next year. It won’t fit me now anyway.”
Andrew glances at me, his eyes glimmering. “Good point. Next year it is, then. Amelia can help me pick it out.”
I return his smile. I can’t think of anything I’d rather be doing a year from now.
Bored with the baking, Bell has migrated outside to help her father and his friends set up the birthday party. Andrew and Pico cover a long picnic table Andrew rented for the kids to sit and eat. Standing at the sink, I watch Bell through the kitchen window as she bosses grown men around the yard. She doesn’t want the plates and silverware in piles—she wants the table set “like the grown-ups do.” She won’t stand for “baby” music. She wants Zeppelin, The Rolling Stones, Black Sabbath, and Taylor Swift. Andrew revealed, after some prodding, it took him three hours to build a playlist suitable for a children’s party.
“You know Andrew has a dishwasher,” Flora says.
I turn my head to her quickly, startled by her voice. “What?”
“You’ve been washing that bowl for five minutes.”
“Oh.” I didn’t have a dishwasher when I moved to city or for years after. Not until Reggie and I got our apartment. Even then, I continued to hand wash everything. I rinse the bowl and set it on a drying rack.
“What’s on your mind?” Flora asks.
I glance back outside. Andrew scans the backyard, squinting against the sun. It looks as though he’s doing nothing, but I know he’s making sure everything is perfect for Bell. He’s devoted to her happiness. I can see why Andrew loves being a dad. It’s not always pretty, but it’s meaningful. He doesn’t fix cars for a living—he raises a human being. I have a reputation for doing my work well, but what does that mean at the end of the day?
A realization hits me hard. Even with everything I’ll have on my plate come Monday morning, I haven’t thought about avec since last night. It’s probably the longest I’ve gone in years without mentally listing all the things I have to do or wondering about website statistics or inventing creative ways to impress my clients. The most surprising part, though, is that I don’t feel any guilt about it. But it’s not because I’m going to lose it. I know in my heart of hearts, I’ll go down with the ship as deep as I need to until all of my clients and employees are taken care of. It’s this, what surrounds me, that has kept me from work. Bell’s party, Andrew’s family, my safety—it all seems more important than sending out an e-mail on time.
Andrew throws his head back and laughs at something Bell says. My heart comes to life. He is more important.
“Work,” I tell Flora.
“You’re thinking about work?” She sounds disappointed.
“No.” I glance at her. “I’m thinking about how I’m not thinking about work.”
“I see.” She tilts her head at me. “How does it feel?”
“Weird. I forget there’s a world outside of it.”
Flora joins me at the sink, looking out the window. “She’s his world. I worry he won’t be able to make space for anyone else, even though he needs to.”
I’m surprised by her bluntness. Last night, she was more than obvious about pushing me onto him.
“Since Shana, many others have tried,” she says. “I’ve seen it with my own eyes. I can’t blame them.” She shakes her head and looks up at me. Despite her words, there’s no pity, no defeat in her eyes. They’re sparkling. “None of them made it here. And it has more to do with you than it does Andrew.”
I study her a moment. “What are you saying?”
“Andrew fought against it because he thought his life needed to be about her. He thought he’d had his chance. What he needed was the right woman to make it worth it again. Someone strong and smart and challenging.”
Though her words resonate deeply with me, I can’t help but point out the obvious. “But it isn’t just about him,” I say. “This whole life is foreign to me.”
“Does that worry you?”
“Of course.” I pinch the apron between my fingers, showing it to her. “I’m not a mom. I don’t do bake sales or minivans, and frankly, I don’t think I ever will. I don’t cook—even my vegetables are takeout. How am I supposed to be responsible for the health of a small child?”
“I don’t know if you’re aware, but Andrew is an excellent chef. For only learning to cook four years ago, he’s astounding. When something’s important to him, he never half-asses it.”
“That’s not really the point—”
“Moms—and families—come in different shapes and sizes. You don’t have to drive a certain kind of vehicle or dress in khaki Bermuda shorts.”
I gasp. “Bermuda shorts—oh, God. You’re making it worse.”
She laughs. “I’m saying not all moms look alike. There are just a few really important things you have to be or do. I don’t think you need me to tell you those.”
Bell folds her arms over her chest, surveying the picnic tables, her stance the exact same as her dad’s when he inspected their work a minute ago. I think of my own mom, who was, for the most part, good to me. But she did her own damage, all while looking exactly as a mom should, according to the rest of the world.
What would I have to be to Bell? A role model, a support beam, a cheerleader. What would I have to do? Love her unconditionally. But am I capable of that? Loving a child seems like it would be more graceful and simple than surrendering your heart to a lover. Already, I feel protective of her. Proud of the headstrong, independent girl she is. If I let myself love her, though—what happens if Andrew and I don’t make it?
“If I do this,” I say, “it’s for good. I can’t just walk away if it gets hard.”
Flora nods her head. “It’s true that Bell isn’t as tough as she acts. But Andrew is teaching her strength, and if one day you leave, she’ll survive.”
“That’s very . . . practical.”
“I’d hate to see you walk away, or worse, not give them a hundred percent of yourself because you’re worried about hurting them down the line. They’re survivors.”
Andrew squats to Bell’s level, his brows furrowed. He listens to whatever she says with complete focus, as if she’s giving him directions to a fortune.
My heart surges with adoration. “I’m not going to walk away,” I say. “It’s more that I’m not sure how not to be a businesswoman.”
“That’s what I’m trying to tell you. You can be both. So you cut back on evenings and weekends. So you work from home more. Don’t you own your own business?”
I swallow. Letting go of avec won’t be easy. Already, I feel a void. Work will always be important to me, and I know I’ll figure out something else. Ultimately, I have to believe in the decision I made because the reasons were right. “Yes,” I say.
/>
“Maybe you get some clients out here. Or open another branch.” She shrugs. “You’re the boss—that’s what bosses do. Adapt.”
Wise old woman. “It’ll take some rearranging.”
“That can be a good thing.”
I cross my arms. Andrew notices us and waves, so I smile at him. It can be a good thing. I think it could be a great thing.
THIRTY-FIVE
The universe is infamous for playing tricks—and right now, the joke is on me. Not twenty minutes after Flora boosted my maternal confidence, the doorbell rang, and so began a steady stream of messy, rowdy children and their Bermuda-shorts-wearing, mini-van-driving mothers. I’m suddenly one of them, only in four-inch heels and a four-hundred dollar frock. The party has begun.
Flora was right—my heels do sink in the grass. I don’t let that discourage me. I pick up napkins that fly off the table with every breeze. I maneuver around toys, discarded plastic cups, and actual small humans.
“I love your dress,” one of the mom gushes, her eyes wide. “Is that from the Spring collection?”
“It is, actually,” I say, guilty over my obvious surprise.
“Oh, I don’t own anything by DVF,” she says, “but I follow a few fashion blogs religiously. Just to torment myself.”
“Really?” I ask, my interest piqued. “You don’t think it’s silly?”
“What, fashion? Not at all. A friend of mine and I shop the vintage stores in the area all the time. Once in a while we’ll score a rare find like an authentic Gucci clutch. It’s better than nothing, which is what my husband lets me have at designer prices.”
“You just haven’t found your bargaining chip yet.”
She tilts her head. “What?”
“No man should have final say over your wardrobe. He can have input at best.”
“But it’s his money,” she says.
“You don’t work?”
“Not unless you count raising three children work.”
I furrow my eyebrows. “Why wouldn’t I? If you’re not making a salary for that, then a Gucci bag is the least he can do.”
“Does that really work?” she asks.
“If it doesn’t, calculate back pay on the hours you’ve worked since your firstborn. That’ll light a fire under his ass.”
She grins and holds out her hand. “We haven’t officially met, but I need to know you. I’m Lynn.”
Lynn and I talk fashion a little longer until she’s called away by her daughter.
I’m not alone long before another mom takes her place. “I don’t think we’ve met,” she says, scanning me from head to toe. “Which one’s yours?”
“None,” I say. “I’m a friend of the host.”
“Andrew?” She blinks. “A friend?”
I nod. “A very good one.”
“Oh. I love your dress.” Though it’s the exact same thing Lynn said, her tone is the opposite of warm and friendly. “It’s . . . festive.”
I grin, smoothing my hand over the front of it. “It is fabulous, isn’t it?” I say, as I turn and walk away. Maybe I can do this mom thing!
I spot Andrew before he sees me. He’s in conversation with a woman—there are a lot of them around—but he keeps looking past her, first at Bell, and then scanning the party. The woman leans in, laughs, and touches his bicep. He crosses his arms, nodding, but he definitely does not look as though he’s enjoying himself. When his eyes land on mine, he smiles widely, somehow brightening an already warm, sunny afternoon.
It’s all the signal I need. I beeline for him, focusing on the way he tracks my every step, his eyes skimming from my legs to my hips to my breasts and finally, my face. When the woman notices he isn’t listening to her, she pauses and follows his line of sight right to me.
“I’ve been looking for you,” he says to me.
“Here I am.” I hold out my hand to her. “Amelia.”
She looks perplexedly at my hand before shaking it. “Kiki. Brynn’s mom.”
“Nice to meet you, Kiki Brynn’s Mom,” I say.
“You’re Bell’s aunt?” she asks.
Andrew lays a heavy arm around my shoulder and brings me into his chest. He kisses the top of my head. “Thankfully not, or that would be weird,” he says. “This is my girlfriend.”
My heart skips. I’m not used to the new designation, but my surprise is nothing compared to the shock on Kiki’s face. Her eyes flare open, and either she doesn’t have time to hide her envy or she doesn’t know how, because I read it loud and clear. I could teach her a thing or two about composure. “Oh—I . . . I didn’t know. When—? I thought—”
“Can you give us a minute, Kiki?” Andrew asks. “I haven’t seen Amelia in half an hour, and I’m dying to give her a real kiss.”
She scoffs, as if he’s affronted her somehow, and takes a step back. “Of course. Why would I mind?” She hurries away. I imagine her casting a glance over her shoulder, but I don’t get a chance to look because Andrew spins me so we’re face to face. He plants a hard kiss on my mouth. “Mmm. You taste even better than the birthday cake.”
I pull back a little. “How would you know? It’s still in the kitchen.”
“I may have snuck a bite.”
“Andrew,” I scold, shoving his chest. He stays right where he is, keeping one arm around my shoulders and the other secured to my waist. “That’s your daughter’s cake. She’ll be devastated.”
“You think I’m stupid? I was strategic about it. I covered my tracks with icing.”
I roll my eyes but hug him back. “Very sneaky.”
“It was delicious.” He rests his forehead against mine. “You did good.”
“Thanks,” I murmur. “That woman—have you . . .?”
“What?” he asks. “With her?”
I nod. “She seemed really offended.”
He shakes his head. “Nah. I don’t mess with the other moms. They’re rabid. If I were to let one of them into my bed, they’d turn into an even hornier pack of bitches.”
I wrinkle my nose. “That many of them are single?”
“No,” he says. “Hardly any. Kiki isn’t.”
“Oh.” Understanding dawns. “So they just want to hook up.”
“Yeah. The weird thing is, the single moms leave me alone. It’s like we understand each other.”
I smile a little. “I never pretended to understand you.”
“Nor I you. You’re still a puzzle.”
Grinning, I tilt my head up for another kiss just as I hear, “Ugh. I don’t know whether to be disgusted or elated.”
Without letting go of Andrew, I turn. Sadie holds a plate with a hamburger. Nathan stands next to her with two more. “On the one hand,” she says, “I want you both to be happy. On the other . . .” She grimaces. “Ew. You’re my brother. And my boss.”
“She’s been a bit multiple-personality ever since,” Nathan nods at her growing belly, “you know.”
Sadie turns to gape at him. “I’m pregnant. I’m entitled to indecision and mood swings.”
“And foot rubs. And midnight ice cream runs. And three plates of food.”
Andrew raises his eyebrows at the burgers and hotdogs. “Those are all for you?”
“As Rachel Green says, ‘no uterus, no opinion,’” she bites back before glancing at me. “Do you have anything to add?”
“Only that you’re absolutely glowing,” I say through a forced smile as I resist asking who Rachel Green is.
“Thank you.” She straightens. “I guess I’m just relieved neither of you is as cynical as you pretend, and that you’re not failing at hiding it anymore.”
Nathan puts an arm around her shoulder as best he can with his hands full. “Come on, babe.”
“But—”
“Nope,” he says. “We’re done here. Let them have their moment.”
When they’ve gone, I shake my head. “Your sister is insane.”
Andrew grins. “She’ll be your sister too.”
I look at him, thinking I’ve misheard. “What?”
His smile fades. “Christ. Sorry. That was a stupid fucking thing to say.”
“She’ll be my sister?” I repeat. I wonder if it was a slip of the tongue, but the way he swallows uncomfortably makes me realize what he’s saying. “You mean if we were to . . . if one day—”
“Don’t freak out,” he says. “It was dumb. I swear, I don’t have a ring in my pocket or anything. I haven’t even thought about it. I wouldn’t just spring that on you—”
“Hang on,” I say, throwing him a lifeline since he’s obviously struggling. “Just back up. I’m not freaking out, but what were you trying to say?”
He stops for a moment, squinting behind me, lost in a thought. Finally, he says, “I wouldn’t have invited you here if I didn’t believe in a future with you. So I guess on some subconscious level, I assume we’re in it now. For the long haul.” He cringes. “Stage-five clinger status?”
I don’t panic. Instead, to my surprise, I laugh. “No. We’re not like other couples. We have to think about these things. I’d be more shocked if I hadn’t just talked to Flora about being a stepmother.”
Andrew’s face stills, and for a moment, our roles are reversed, and I feel like I’ve gone too far. He clenches his jaw, and the warm blue of his eyes sharpens. “God,” he says. “A stepmom. To Bell.”
I hold his gaze and point out, “That’s the same thing as being Sadie’s sister-in-law.”
“I know,” he says. “I’m not saying it’s a bad thing, I just never thought I’d . . . get here. And so quickly.”
I rub his back. “It is quick. We have all the time in the world, though. There’s no rush.”
“Where’s Daddy?” Bell calls over the din of the crowd. “I have to blow out the candles now.”
“Well, maybe a slight rush,” I amend, smiling.
“It never ends,” he says. “And summer break’s around the corner. That’s months without a reprieve.” I can’t tell if it’s a complaint or a warning—especially since he’s smiling.
The First Taste (Slip of the Tongue Book 2) Page 36