Page 12 of Tastes Like Summer

For the first time since that torturous orientation, Michael and I make eye contact. “I don’t know,” he replies. “I guess it’s up to their mom.”

“Mami, please.” Emi begs, bringing her hands together.

I stare into my daughters’ eyes, cursing my urge to satisfy their every need while having to balance being responsible. “Emi, you can’t. I just checked the app and—” I cut myself off when I see my daughter shooting furtive glances at her new friend.

Has she not told her friend about her diabetes? Is she scared? Kids are insanely cruel, but Rachel doesn’t strike me as the kind of kid who would ever judge or make fun of anyone for something like that. Or anything, for that matter. For all the crap I’ve given Michael or whatever negative impression he’s left on me, his daughter seems like an amazing kid.

I look down at all three girls’ pleading looks, feeling myself break. I promised myself I’d do everything in my power to give my girls a normal life so…

“How about this? How about if today, Rachel comes over—if her dad lets her of course—” I shoot Michael a look—“and you guys can go to visit their farm at a later time. When we can plan it out better.” When I can make sure I can go too and keep an eye on you guys.

Because, though I’m sure that deep down—I’m thinking Mariana Trench deep—Michael can be a responsible parent, I’m not about to entrust him with my children after everything. At least not until he can prove to me he won’t pull the same stupid stuff Rodrigo pulled all the time.

The girls beam up at me, nodding.

“Michael? So can I go to Cami and Emi’s house? They said they had a pool, too. And I still have my bathing suit from today in my bag.”

Michael? He lets his kid call him by his first name? I try not to reveal my confusion, but I feel my face scrunch.

He glances quickly at me before turning back to his daughter, his brow furrowed. “I don’t know…”

“I can make them an early dinner, if you’d like, and they can play for a while and then you can pick Rachel up.”

“Please, Michael?” Rachel pulls on his t-shirt (plain white, as per usual), using the full force of her big eyes.

“If it helps, I can give you my number just in case. And you can pick her up in a couple of hours. I’ll give you the address and⁠—”

“I know where you live,” he grunts, running his fingers through his hair.

“Um, what?” I pull my girls closer to my side on instinct.

Not missing a thing, he rolls his eyes at me. “You’re Barbara’s friend, right? The one staying at her house? Barbara and I grew up together. Well, I grew up with Vinny, Liza’s brother? And Barbara’s best friend is Liza. So I’ve known her basically my whole life. And now we’re friends. Meaning, I’ve been to her new place. She mentioned she had someone with two girls staying in her guest house for the summer. That’s you, isn’t it?”

“Oh. I just thought… That you were the caterer.”

“I was. I am. Though that’s just a side business for now while I get my…” He lets his voice trail off and shakes his head. “Whatever. The point is, I know who you are.”

I clear my throat, suddenly anxious. What did Barbara say about me? Does he know about the divorce? About all the shitty stuff that’s happened lately? God.

“Yes. That’s—I mean, I’m not sure whether I’d necessarily categorize myself as her friend. More so that—” I stop myself from rambling. “Yes, I’m her. She. Whatever.”

He scratches the back of his head, looks back at Rachel. “I guess we could go over to Emi and Camila’s house for a bit,” he tells his daughter.

“We?” I squeak.

“Well, contrary to what you believe, I’m not going to let my daughter spend the rest of the afternoon with some stranger.” He spits the word out, pulling Rachel into him.

“I thought we just established that I’m not a stranger. That I’m Barbara’s friend.”

“That doesn’t mean much to me. I don’t personally know you, so you’re a stranger to me. And you just clarified that you’re not really her friend.”

We glare at each other. For some dumb reason, because I honestly have no clue what’s going on or how this is even an argument. So he wants to make sure his kid is okay. So what? That’s normal. Why the hell does it have me so bothered? I would have probably asked for the same thing in this case.

“Fine,” I say through gritted teeth. “You can both come over. The girls can play while you and I…” While you and I what, exactly?

I huff. Frustrated, I grab both my girls by the hand, dragging them back to the car. “Let’s go. Follow me home,” I say over my shoulder.

“Again, I already know where you live!” he calls out as he watches us walk away.