“She is,” Kent says, moving toward his granddaughter and kissing the top of her head.
After Lia’s dramatic play with our minis, we head to the café for a quick bite. Kent brings Lia to the bathroom again because four-year-olds apparently need to pee more than I realized. I buy slices of cheese pizza for each of us and find a booth. They have dispensers with napkins and I grab the largest stack I’ve had in a long time. Something tells me eating with Lia will be its own adventure.
When they return and settle in, I head to wash up myself. The bathrooms are LEGO-inspired, with LEGO handles on the urinals and sink, and I wonder how challenging it must be to keep all the crevices clean. As I scrub and wash, I catch my reflection in the giant mirror.
For a split second, I see myself as a stranger. My shiny bald head. My hazel eyes and long eyelashes Kent seems so fond of. For forty, I’m fit enough, and I’m … handsome. Maybe this is what Kent sees? But my appearance isn’t the problem. It’s me. Inside. My brain. My compulsions. The warm water continues to embrace my hands, only to be abruptly cut off by the sudden stop of the automatic faucet. One more hit to rinse again, and I dry my hands and head back to join Kent and Lia.
We feast on the salty pizza and Lia, surprisingly, doesn’t make a massive mess. There’s pizza sauce and cheese over most of her mouth, but she wipes every few bites and when we finish, Kent grabs a wet wipe from his bag and she does a fairly good job cleaning herself before he gives her a final once-over. As I observe their interaction, a warmth washes over me, touched by his sweetness and patience. He’s a genuinely good man.
We spend another hour on various LEGO-themed activities. I help Lia make a rocket, and then a machine scans and projects it on an enormous screen while we use it to play a game of shooting asteroids. There’s a LEGO replica of Boston that’s easily ten times as big as my Paris, but hey, they have the space and a team of professional builders. After a quick visit to the gift shop, where Lia buys a LEGO set from a recent princess movie, we head to Kent’s car.
“Will you help me put it together?” Lia asks, clutching the box to her chest in her car seat.
“Maybe Mommy or Daddy want to help,” Kent says, driving us back toward the highway.
“No way. They’d get flustrated.”
“Do you mean frustrated?” I ask.
“Or flustered?” Kent asks. “It means nervous.”
Lia shrugs and repeats, “Flustrated. I want Vincent to help me. He’s patient.”
Patient. Nobody’s ever called me that, but I suppose I can be. I certainly was today.
I glance back toward her and smile. “You’re easy to be patient with.”
Kent starts up the music, and Lia sings along, but it only takes three songs before she passes out. Resting my head back, I glance out the window, watching the giant cables of the Zakim Bridge. My eyes grow heavy as they fly by, creating a pattern of light.
“Are you tired?” Kent rubs his palm over my thigh. “Close your eyes.”
I respond by placing my hand on top of his, ensuring it stays put. He went out of his way to make this day special for me.
“Thank you.”
“You have to stop thanking me,” he says.
I shake my head. “No, I don’t think I do.”
Wrapping my fingers around Kent’s hand, I hold it until, exhausted by the tremendous joyful experience, I doze off after the most amazing Kent, Lia, and LEGO-filled day.
CHAPTER 22
Kent
“A foot job? Are you trying to tickle my labia?”
The March mini warm spell prompts Ruth to tie the jacket of her tracksuit around her waist, and her toned, fit arms sway back and forth with each step, showcasing her strength.
“I wasn’t sure what was happening at first,” I confess. “His feet. On my shmekel.”
“Your what?” Ruth asks, and I chuckle, knowing I used a Yiddish word she doesn’t know yet.
“Shmekel. Penis.”
She nods, committing it to memory. “But you liked it. His feet on your … shmekel.”
I give her a crisp nod, place my hand on her back, and say, “I was verklempt.”
