Page 37 of Tastes Like Summer

“Listen, Dee. It really isn’t that hard. Wear something cute, be nice and polite. If you say you’re not looking for anything, then I’m not sure why you’re stressing at all. However, if you wanted a summer fling—which no one would blame you for, by the way, because I totally think you deserve to have some fun for the first time in your goddamn life—I think you should wear something hot, be a little flirty and mysterious, and still be nice.”

“Hot? I don’t own anything hot. And I am always nice.”

“You know what I mean.”

“No, I don’t know what you mean, apparently. Because if—” A knock on the sliding kitchen door cuts me off. My stomach drops and suddenly taking in a breath seems to be much harder than normal. “Shoot. Rosie, I gotta go. He’s here, and I haven’t even changed!” I look down at my stained t-shirt, my worn denim cutoffs, beat up Converse, and sigh. This is as good as it’s going to get.

“But—”

I hang up and run into the kitchen, where I find a smiling Michael—two giant grocery bags in his arms, a black canvas bag strapped across his chest—and Rachel, both bathed in the late afternoon summer sunlight.

With more force than even I expected, I slide the doors open, eyes on Michael’s smiling face, dimples hiding just below his scruff. He holds my gaze as Rachel slips by me with a, “Hi, Mrs. Castillo,” before shooting off to my daughters’ room.

Rude as it may sound, my brain barely processes the interaction. I’m hooked on the way Michael’s eyes look so green under the setting sun. My breath catches, cheeks blaze, something warm starts to build low in my stomach, and suddenly I realize that, oh no, maybe Rosie was right.

I do have a little crush on him.

Maybe bigger than little. Medium?

“You came,” I can’t help but breathe.

A dimpled grin turns me a bit jelly-kneed and the warmth spreads to that place between my thighs. Okay, maybe my crush is bigger than medium, but not quite large. Is there such a thing as extra medium?

“I told you we would. And I’m a man of my word.”

I laugh once, waving him into the house. “You’re a rare breed, then.”

His grin widens. “I’m glad you see me that way. It would kill me to be just another guy to you.”

Oh no. I’m in trouble.

“Here. Start chopping these green onions,” he says, passing me a bushel. Our fingers touch as he does, hands freezing momentarily in the middle of the air. But after a moment, he loosens his grip and I take the onions to the sink to rinse.

I clear my throat, picking a spot on the kitchen island to start chopping. “So what are we making?”

“I’m going to be teaching you how to make T1D-friendly Venezuelan food. All it takes are a few adjustments, but once you have it, you’ll be able to have her living a semi-normal life again. At least with food at home.”

“What? I mean, I know there are some foods she can still eat, obviously, but⁠—”

“They’re not going to be the same. But eating for her condition is all about balancing sugar and fiber, right? Kind of? So that’s what we’re going to do. And just how you memorized the same three go-to recipes, we’ll have you memorize these adjustments so you can add three more to your repertoire. Like, she can still have arepas—we just need to add something like flax seed to the mix in order to increase its fiber content. So, yeah. All about replacements and adjustments.”

I stare wide-eyed at him. Because it sounds obvious. And it is. And I want to cry from the shame I feel for not realizing it earlier.

“Hey, wait. What’s wrong?” He reaches a hand out to grab one of mine but pulls back just in time.

“It just… it doesn’t sound like a hard thing to do. But for some reason, the mental load makes it almost impossible. Like... I know the principles. I know what she can and can’t eat. And yet… I need to be sure what she’s eating so it has to be stuff that I’ve measured, that I’ve calculated prior, even though now we can enter all that into an app, and the pump and CGM work together and—” I heave a sigh. “I’m just saying. She’s not even your daughter and you were able to do the research. I’m not used to failing, and here I am, my entire life falling apart. I’m usually so organized and on top of things.” The shame in my voice is pretty evident, especially since I don’t try and mask it. I deserve it.

“Hey.” In a completely surprising turn of events, he pulls me into his arms. In an even more surprising turn of events, I like it. “You are dealing with so much right now. More than one person can handle. With everything on your plate, I wouldn’t blame you if you were giving your kid the same shit for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. I mean, a fucking divorce? An ex who you have to protect for your daughters’ sake? Finding a new job and an apartment? Having a kid be newly diagnosed with a dangerous chronic condition while making sure your other kid doesn’t feel left out? Diana, I am in awe of you.”

I press my forehead against his shoulder. Citrus fills my lungs, but it isn’t from any of the lemons or limes lying on my counter.

It’s a lot, yes. But: “I don’t even know what I’m doing half the time.”

He sighs and wraps his arms around me, pulling me into the sweetest hug I think I’ve ever received from a man. “Your best, Diana. You’re doing your fucking best.”

It only takes a few minutes for me to settle, but I manage to do so beautifully. Mostly, thanks to Michael. Quickly, we’re able to move on to the actual “lesson,” though there’s not much he’s truly teaching me, regardless of what he says.

I roll my eyes at Michael as he tsks at my chopping. Again. “You know, I’m actually a fantastic cook. My mother taught me when I was a kid, so I’ve been doing it since forever.”