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Throw Something
I ignorethe pang in my chest. We wouldn’t be a good fit anyway. For all I know, he’s divorced and has kids of his own. Of course he’s not looking to start over with someone my age. Cripes, he may have kids myage.
Unaccountably depressed by this, I snatch Sophie up and go out to get her diaper bag, leaving BeeBee in the house. Dante passes me on the way, my girl’s crib under one big arm as if it weighs nothing at all, her stroller in his otherhand.
Grabbing the diaper bag and a rubber bin, I carry them back inside. BeeBee is ecstatic to see us, as if she’s known us since she was a puppy and we’ve been gone for ages. I settle Sophie down in her playpen and start digging out some of her favoritetoys.
“I’ll be right back, my love,” I tell her once she’s happily playing with a doll and a stuffed dog, making them talk to each other in words only she can understand. BeeBee whines and tries to lick Sophie through the mesh walls of thepen.
I find Dante in the front bedroom, assembling the crib. The room’s set up as an office, but there’s a door in the back wall. “Both bedrooms share the bathroom?” I guess.
“Yeah. We can leave the doors open so you can hear her easily.”
The we startles me for a moment until I realize he’s just talking about himself and me as the two adults in the house. “Would you like me to make dinner?” It’s the least I cando.
Those dark eyes fix on me. My pulse leaps. “You like to cook?” heasks.
His kitchen is not set up for someone who doesn’t care about food. I shrug, suddenly nervous. “Sure.”
“Help yourself, if you feel like it. No worries if you don’t.”
Overcome by the sudden urge to prove I’m not just a burden, I transfer Sophie and her playpen to a corner of the kitchen — BeeBee comes with us — and start investigating. Oh, yes; I have everything here, foods and spices and all the random ingredients that serious cooks like to keep onhand.
When Dante comes in, I’m pleased to see he’s got Sophie’s high chair with him. “Oh, great. I was just about to make her a sandwich. Would you mind getting her intothat?”
The words come out of my mouth, but I can’t believe I said them. I never let other people do things like that. Too late, though; Dante’s already on the move, setting the chair down, making sure it’s stable, and lifting Sophie from the playpen.
She crows with delight, not at all upset by him holding her, and thwacks him on the chest. He grins, and I get a funny feeling watching him buckle her into the high chair. “Sophie,” I say when he’s done, “would you like peanut butter and jelly, or boloney?”
“Peebur!”
“Want me to move her over by the table?” Dante says. I’d put the playpen on the opposite side of the kitchen, where she’d be out of the way of foot traffic.
“Yes, please.” I quickly put the sandwich together, cut off the crusts, cut the sandwich into small diagonal sections, slice up a carrot and an apple, and look around for non-breakable plates. There aren’t any. “Are you okay with her eating off the stoneware?”
“Yeah, sure.”
“Is it fragile, Imean?”
He shrugs. “I don’t think so, but it’s just a plate. I can always buy more.” I stand still, looking at him. “What?”
“Nothing.” I get down a bright blue salad plate, arrange the food on it, and set it in front of Sophie. BeeBee, clever dog, is now under the table, alert for possible spills. “Here you go, darlinggirl.”
“Tontay,” she calls, and immediately starts trying to feedhim.
Such a generous heart, my daughter. I watch them from the corner of my eye as I locate her sippy cup, rinse it out, and put fresh water in it. She hands him pieces of her meal, and he dutifully eats tiny bites of them before handing themback.
Not satisfied with his intake, she tries to give them back again. He shakes his head, and her lower lip protrudes. Sophie has a stubborn streak.
“That’s your food, kid. You gotta eatit.”
“Tontay,” she repeats, and offers him anotherbit.
“I had some. If you don’t eat, how are you gonna grow up big and strong?”
She considers this, then solemnly shoves a piece of sandwich in her mouth and chews. I set the sippy cup on her tray and shoot Dante a smile she can’tsee.
He gets that look on his face again, like the last time I smiled at him. Before I can move away, his hand curls around my thigh just above myknee.
Heat penetrates the thin cloth of my lightweight pants and burns into my skin like a brand, then shoots down between my legs. My eyes get big. Okay, this probably doesn’t count as an “I don’t like you that way” move.
He squeezes lightly, his eyes still holding mine, then lets me go. I wander in a daze back over to the refrigerator.
“Mama?”
“What, baby?”
I sound like a total airhead, because my brain has not recovered from Dante touching me. Turning, I see him staring at the table with great concentration, his lips pressed together, obviously trying hard not to smile — or, worse yet, laugh. If Sophie weren’t in the room I’d throw something athim.
