The First Taste(52)

“Not yet, Bluebell. Are you being good for Mrs. Picolli?”

“You promised you’d be home before I went to bed.”

I exhale smoke up at the ceiling, shaking my head. This is exactly what I was just describing to Amelia. Bell gets the same tone Shana used to get when she’s testing how far she can push me. “I didn’t say that.”

“Yes you did—”

“What have I told you about lying? We don’t lie. And you never, ever lie to your father. Do you hear me?”

She sniffles. “I’m sorry. I just m-miss you. Please come home.”

My throat gets thick in an instant, the way it does when I know she’s trying to keep tears in. It’s sometimes worse than when she actually cries. I shouldn’t have snapped at her, not when she’s already upset, but any form of lying is unacceptable in our house.

Suddenly, I can’t stomach the thought of smoking, but there’s nowhere to put out the cigarette. I keep it between my fingers and scratch my eyebrow. “I’m sorry, kid. I’m not angry. Go get in bed. Flora’ll read you a story, and you’ll fall asleep in minutes. By the time you wake up, I’ll be home.”

She hiccups. “No.”

Fuck. I know what’s coming. I try to stop it, even though I know it’s in vain. “Bell, please don’t—”

“I miss you,” she sobs into the phone. Unlike before, when she was throwing a tantrum, her cries are weighty, hopeless, as if I just confessed to killing her puppy or that I made plans to ship her off to boarding school. They’re the familiar, late-night sobs of a confused toddler asking where Mommy went months ago. “I won’t go to sleep. Not until you come home. Please, Daddy. I’m scared.”

I press the meat of my palm to my forehead. All the nasty things Shana ever said to me, all the names my dad called me growing up, nothing hurts an ounce as much as this. Listening to my daughter beg me to be with her when I’m not is sheer torture.

“Bell, honey,” Flora says in the background. “The sooner you let Daddy get back to his party, the sooner he’ll be home.”

“Leave me alone,” she says, but there’s no fight in her voice, just wobbling defeat. “He’s my dad. You don’t know him or me.”

“Come on, Bell,” I say. “That’s not fair to Flora.”

“No. I won’t go to sleep. I’ll stay up all night and wait for you. I swear, I won’t even get in bed—”

“Bell—”

“No! No, no, no, no, n—”

“Okay,” I say, anything to make it stop. “Okay. All right. I’ll . . . I’ll come home.”

She sniffs. “You will? Now?”

“It’ll take me a while to get there. Please go lie down and let Flora read to you until I’m there.”

“You promise?” she asks, hiccupping again. “Swear?”

I look at the ground. I know in my gut she’ll be asleep when I get home. But if I lie to her, and she wakes up to find me not where I said I’d be, I can’t bear to think how it would hurt her. “I swear.”

“Okay. I’ll go to bed, but I promise I won’t sleep. Not until you come say goodnight.”

“All right.” I sigh, not sure what to feel about the fact that the heaviness in her voice has vanished. It’s one thing to be played for a fool by a six-year-old, but it’s another to let it happen repeatedly. “Put Flora on the phone.”

“I can’t remember the lyrics to Deep Purple. Will you sing it for me?”

“Deep Purple?” I ask, leaning back against the hallway wall. “I haven’t played that for you yet. You been going through my music?” I don’t wait for her answer, since I know what it’ll be. She loves to steal my phone at the shop and play with it. Instead of downloading games like regular kids, she explores my music. Quickly, I rattle off a verse of “Hush” and a string of nah-nahs. “That’s enough,” I say. “I’ll sing the rest when I get home.”

“Okay. Here’s Flora.”

Flora’s barely on the line when I say, “I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t worry.” She lowers her voice. “But she needs boundaries, Andrew. You can’t come running every time she cries.”

“I know.” I take one last smoke, even though I feel a little sick. “I should come back anyway. I’ll be home in about an hour.”

She sighs. “If you think that’s best.”

“See you soon.” I end the call, turn around, and freeze when I see Amelia in the doorway.

“I smelled the smoke,” she says.

“Yeah.” I hold it up. “I’m done with it.”

She takes it from me. “You have a nice singing voice.”

“You heard. Of course you did. You probably also heard Bell’s tantrum all the way from Jersey.” I scratch under my jaw. “She has me by the f*cking balls, that kid.”

Amelia takes a drag. “You’re leaving?”

I remove the cigarette from her hand, drop it, and step on it before stepping into her. She looks even more delicious with a smear of raspberry sauce on her cheek. “Anyone ever tell you you’re a sloppy eater?”