The First Taste(5)

We stop at the subway, and I pass Sadie Bell’s overnight bag as I squat. “I’ll pick you up Sunday. You can call me anytime if you need anything.”

“How?”

“With Aunt Sadie’s phone.”

“But . . .” She looks up at Sadie and back to me. “Maybe you can come too?”

“Dads are no fun at sleepovers,” Sadie says. “I’m not even sure we’ll let Uncle Nathan stay.”

Bell swallows, and her eyes water. “I don’t want to go.”

“Aw, come on, kid,” I say, smiling, even though her words tear my heart in half like it’s straight up rice paper. “You’ve been excited about this all week.”

“I changed my mind.”

“You’re a big girl, Bell,” I say. “No tears. What do you always tell me about crying?”

She inhales a shaky breath but after a moment, her shoulders drop a few inches. “It’s for little boys.”

“There we go.” I nod. “Now, go with Aunt Sadie, and give Ginger a kiss for me.”

Her cheeks, pink from holding in tears, round with a small smile. “What about Uncle Nathan?”

“When have you ever seen me kiss Uncle Nathan?”

She giggles, and I peck her forehead before standing again. I want her to be tough. To speak her mind and stand up for herself. I also want her to stop growing up so fast. It’s a war in me that never seems to end—raise a smart, mature, confident girl while keeping her my baby. Sometimes I worry I’m doing a shit job of all of it.

“What’re you going to do now?” Sadie asks.

Normally at this time, I’d be prepping dinner. Maybe grocery shopping with Bell or listening to her day as I chop vegetables. It’s too early for a drink, or I’d go to Timber Tavern, my local watering hole. “Head home, I guess.”

She holds open her arms. “But you’re in New York City. Why not do something fun? Live a little.”

“I’ve hated this place since we were kids. It’s full of superficial snobs, present company included.”

She smirks, used to my teasing. “I’m just saying. You’re a bachelor for forty-eight hours. Use them wisely.”

“I’m also a thirty-five-year-old dad,” I say, deadpan. “I’m hardly about to go on a bender.”

“Then I suggest you do the thirties version of a bender and binge on good food. There’s a place around the corner that has amazing pizza. Seriously. You’d die for it.”

Sadie has a weird habit of saying she’d die for a meal. “I happen to like my life,” I say. “But I’ll think about it.”

“Ready?” Sadie asks Bell, taking her hand.

We say goodnight, and the two most important women in my world descend down the steps without me.

I shove my hands in my pockets, watching long after they’re gone. It’s a fifteen-minute walk back to Penn Station, but at the thought of going home to an empty house, I slow to a crawl. I’ll be on my own for an entire weekend—the first time since Bell’s mom left almost four years ago. I have an open invitation to go out with the guys at my shop, but most of the time I prefer to stay home with Bell. And on the rare occasion I get a sitter, at least I know I’m coming home to find Bell safe in her bed. Two nights without that comfort feels like the loss of a limb.

As I approach Sadie’s office on my way back to the train, my sight snags on the smoking-hot blonde coming out of the building before I realize who it is. Digging through her purse with one hand, Sadie’s boss, Amelia, stops a few feet in front of me. She’s carrying a small package, plus a laptop bag and purse over her shoulder, and both crooks of her arms are occupied by manila folders, magazines, and a coffee thermos.

I walk until I’m standing right in front of her. “Need some help?”

She keeps her head down. “No.”

I cross my arms at her curtness. “Just trying to be friendly.”

“Right,” she snorts. “In this city? Friendly means—” She glances up and squints at me. “Oh. You’re the plumber.”

“For the last time, I’m not a plumber,” I say. “I’m Sadie’s brother.”

The corner of her red mouth twitches as if she’s going to smirk, but she manages to contain it, which is almost worse. “Of course. My mistake.”

The thermos wedged in her elbow clatters on the ground. “Shit,” she says, trying to balance everything and go after it.

“Let me give you a hand,” I say, scooping it up. “Where are you headed?”

“I’m fine.” She takes it from me. Some papers slide out of the folder, dangerously close to falling out. “Just because you fixed my toilet doesn’t make me helpless.”

“I wasn’t implying you were.” Since my help isn’t wanted, I have to ball my hands under my pits to stop myself from saving the papers slipping through the folder. I glance at them, pages ripped from a yellow legal pad, hoping she’ll get the hint. The handwriting—hers, I assume—is messy, but I still make out the words assets and alimony.

“If you’re going to stare at my breasts, try not to be so obvious about it.”

“I wasn’t, actually,” I say and let my gaze drift a few inches over. Unless she’s wearing a bionic push-up bra, she’s got more to work with than her slight frame suggests. “But I am now.”