He wanders off, whistling the theme song from the movie.
I take Maisie’s hand, and we walk out into the cold night air. The snow has stopped, leaving the world white and glittering under the streetlights.
“Are you too tired, bug?” I ask as I buckle her into the backseat. “We can go straight home if you want.”
“No way,” she says, pulling Frida the rabbit out of her coat pocket. “I’m not tired. I like your friends, Mommy. Fallon is funny. And Eli is… nice. He smells like a cookie.”
I laugh, starting the car. “He does smell like a cookie, doesn’t he?”
I back out of the parking spot, heading toward the restaurant.
“Mom?”
“Yeah, baby?”
“Is Eli the one who made those lemon tarts? The ones I had for breakfast? The super good ones?”
I glance at her in the rearview mirror. “He is. That’s his job. He’s a baker.”
“No way,” Maisie breathes. “That’s so cool. He’s like… a wizard but with sugar.”
“He’s pretty special,” I agree.
Maisie sits back, hugging the rabbit, a small smile playing on her lips. I look at her. She’s happy. She’s safe. She’s not flinching at loud noises or looking over her shoulder.
I used to dream of days like this. Back in the apartment in Maple Glen, when the yelling was too loud and the fear was too sharp, I would close my eyes and imagine a life like this.
A night out with my daughter. Friends who treated us well. No shadows.
I made this life. I fought for it. So what if it’s a Sunday night and we’re out past bedtime? We’re allowed to have fun. We’re allowed to be happy.
When we pull up to Blade & Butter, the back door is propped open, warm yellow light spilling out into the alley.
Eli is waiting for us.
We step inside, the smell of yeast and wood smoke hitting us instantly.
“Come on in,” Eli says, locking the door behind us. “The dining room is dark, but the kitchen is all set up.”
I walk through the hallway, my heart rate picking up just a little. The last time I was in this kitchen, the lights were off, and Eli and I were… well.
The memory of his hands on me floods my mind. I feel my face heat up.
I glance at Eli. He’s taking off his coat, hanging it on the rack. He looks over at me, and for a second, I swear he’s thinking the exact same thing.
A flush creeps up his neck, and he quickly adjusts his glasses, turning toward the industrial fridge.
“Right,” he says, his voice a little strangled. “Pizzas. Let’s get the dough.”
“I can help!” Maisie volunteers, running over to the large stainless steel island.
“You certainly can,” Fallon says, walking in with his own coat draped over his arm. “But first, wash your hands. Rule number one in the kitchen.”
“Okay!”
The next hour is a blur of flour and laughter. Eli brings out trays of proofed dough balls, showing Maisie how to press them out with her fingertips.
“Don’t use a rolling pin,” he tells her gently. “You want to keep the air bubbles in. That’s what makes it crispy.”
