The First Taste(123)



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.”

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