More Than I Could (73)

I hold up a hand and inspect the shitty job I did before bed last night. “I did them, and this is not my best work. Please don’t judge once you see them in the light.”

“What color is that?”

“Offset,” I say, grinning at the memory of the night we came up with that name. “We named it after … Well, I can’t tell you that because you’re a minor. But someday, I will, if you want to know.”

She slides onto a barstool on the island. “What do you mean you named it?”

I find the peanut butter, caramel, and mini cookies I bought at the grocery yesterday. Then I find the apples.

“I mean, I named it,” I say, pulling out the cutting board they use for veggies. “Well, I can’t say that. It wasn’t just me. But the team worked late one night, and we might’ve had some wine in plastic cups, and we came up with Offset.” I hold up a hand. “It didn’t make the cut for fall last year, but I snagged a few samples because I loved it so much.”

Kennedy’s brows pull together, and the dimple in her chin, like her dad and uncles, shines.

I take out a knife and begin to peel the apples. “You do know that I worked for Iyala Nails, right?”

Her jaw drops to the counter. “No, I did not know that.”

I smile at her reaction. This must be what it feels like to be a celebrity.

“Are you joking?” she asks, still in disbelief. “You did not work for Iyala.”

“No, I did. How do you think I got the pink tote from the spring collection?”

“I don’t know. I just thought you were cool or something. You worked for them? For real?”

I laugh. “Yes. I promise. You can look at my email if you want. They got ahold of me last week to offer me my job back.”

“Did you take it?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

I slice the apples and set them aside. Then I smear a few spoonfuls of peanut butter on the board.

“It wasn’t a good fit anymore,” I tell her, relishing the peace that comes with those words. “I worked there for a long time and had a lot of great experiences. But I’m just not a California girl.”

“Where do you live?” she asks, watching me drizzle caramel on the peanut butter.

“Well, I’m from Dallas. That’s where my mom lives. So I guess I live there.”

She looks confused.

“I’m between jobs,” I say, snapping the caramel bottle closed. “Sometimes being an adult sucks.”

She throws her chest onto the counter and sighs dramatically.

I laugh. “What’s that about?”

“You think being an adult sucks? Try being a kid.”

“I was one once, you know.”

“Yeah, but a single dad didn’t raise you.”

Okay. Where are we going with this?

I place some cookies, chop a banana, and add it to the board's periphery.

“You’re right,” I say carefully. “But I was raised by a single mom.”

“Yeah, but moms know about periods and boyfriends. Dads are just … cringy.”

I grin and slide the board between us. She takes an apple and drags it through the peanut butter and caramel.

“Like, I know he means well, and he wants the best for me,” she says, crunching down on the fruit. “But he has no idea what it’s like to be a teenage girl.”

“No, he wouldn’t know that. But what about your aunt Kate? Can you talk to her about stuff?”

“Ha.” She drags the apple through the board again. “Kate is busy. I love her and know she’d do anything for me, but I can’t call her and ask her to buy me tampons.”

Wow. I never thought about that.

I nibble a piece of banana and watch Kennedy pick out a cookie.

I’ve always looked at Kennedy and this situation as a child with a fantastic family. She has love out the ass. Her behavior, I’ve decided, is just typical teenage crap.

But is it?

I’ve never considered having to ask a man for tampons or help when starting your period for the first time. Or how to do makeup. Or wanting pretty bras and panties—how does she manage that?

What about boys? Dating? Oh my gosh—birth control?

“Do you have a boyfriend?” I ask, testing the waters.

She laughs at me. “Right. Like Dad is going to go for that.”

“That doesn’t mean you don’t.”

She smiles coyly.

“Look, Ken, I’m not naive. I know what it’s like to be fourteen. You’re getting attention from boys. But are you giving them yours?”

She bites a cookie and watches me curiously. “I don’t know. Are you asking me as my friend or my babysitter?”

“I’m not your babysitter.”

“Yeah. You kind of are.”

I grip the edge of the counter. “Well, whatever you want to call me—I’m here. If you want to talk to someone, not your grandma or aunt, you can talk to me.”

“But you’ll tell my dad.”

“Tell him what?”

She grins. “Nothing. There’s nothing to tell.”

I shake a finger at her before taking another piece of banana. “You’re cute.” I head to the refrigerator to get a drink.