Page 40 of Tastes Like Summer

“Say you’ll let me be there for you—at least this one time—so you can get exactly what you deserve for once.”

I notice she doesn’t address that I’ve all but confessed how much I like her, but none of that matters when she breathes, “Okay. Thank you,” and gives me the most beautiful smile I’ve ever seen.

If you’d have asked me five years ago where I’d be today, I would not have answered The Long Island Aquarium. In fact, five years ago, in an interview for the Times, I was asked where I’d be today, and my answer was far from what my reality is now. Back then, I believed I’d be head chef and owner of my own restaurant in a city like New York or London or Paris. But here I am, herding three children—Rachel and Diana’s two girls—through a packed aquarium while a mountain of work piles up for the farm-to-table I’m trying to open, and there’s not a single thing I would change about it.

I’m more than happy to help babysit Cami and Emi while Diana is in Manhattan. The fact that her boss flew in all the way from Colorado for this meeting signified that it was a big deal, which in turn meant that her being invited was even bigger. And I want Diana to be happy—for so many reasons. The first being that she’s always there for her daughters, sacrificing her happiness for their own. But it’s not just for them that she goes the extra mile. I think back to the Fourth of July barbecue, the way she helped me and Rachel achieve this very pivotal breaking point in our relationship. Without her help, without her influence, there’s a chance Rachel would’ve never opened up to me fully. There’s a chance we would’ve had a relationship limited in communication, both of us starved for it for the rest of our lives. But Diana knew better, and she helped my daughter and I talk. She made us listen to each other and express how we felt.

I know that sounds extremely simple in theory, but understanding what you’re feeling and subsequently expressing those feelings is not always a simple task.

Rachel called me “Dad.”

I smile down at my daughter, gazing at her as she watches the stingrays in the open, shallow pool right by the aquarium entrance. Gasping, her eyes shine with excitement.

“Guys! Look!” She squeals, jumping up and down as she gets Cami and Emi’s attention. “You can pet the stingrays!”

The other two girls gasp as well and immediately make a run for the “petting area.” I run behind them because that can’t be right, can it?

“You can pet stingrays?” I ask, looking around at the other children sitting on the edge of the pool, some of them, indeed, letting their little hands run over the backs of swimming stingrays. My first thought is how awful it must be for the animals to have to endure humans all day every day. But as I take a closer look, I see that most, if not all, stingrays seem to enjoy the attention, playing with the children, coming up and peeking out of the shallow water before going back in.

“Dad!” Rachel waves me over. “Come pet one! It’s so gross and slimy and cool!”

“Well, I would’ve never thought those first two words would go in the same sentence as ‘cool.’ Still, I’ll take your word for it, kid.”

I smile at the girls’ awestruck expressions, and think to myself Today is gonna be a good day.

It takes longer than expected to get three girls to abandon petting a slimy fish (are stingrays fish?), but I manage to pull them away from the shallow feeding pool to check out the rest of the aquarium.

Watching Rachel pay absolutely zero attention to me because she’s so busy having fun with her friends feels like one of the best things a person can experience. Seeing your child happy and just being a fucking kid is an indescribable feeling. My happiness is momentarily disrupted, however, by bitterness. Because my parents apparently never gave a shit about me enough to make sure whether I was happy or well taken care of. They never made me feel the type of joy or peace I see in Rachel’s eyes right now. I was never anything more than a burden.

The resentment I feel toward my parents has increased steadily every day since Rachel has come into my life under this new dynamic. I’ve grown more and more indifferent about the fact that no one has any idea where my parents are now—I don’t even know whether they’re together or not—but the anger I repressed as a young adult and in my early twenties has come back full force. Despite the rage, I try to reframe the feeling into a positive one. It’s something that will ensure I will, for the rest of my life, do everything in my power to make sure my child is happy and well.

It’s around snack time when we finally get tickets to see the seal show. The girls convince me to sit in the first couple of rows, so we naturally get soaked during their hilarious show. Normally, I feel weird about aquariums and zoos, but all the animals here seem to be happy with their new digs. Before I know it, I’m laughing, lost in the moment, feeling something warm course through me as my daughter looks up at me and thanks me for bringing her and her friends here.

“Of course, bud. Plus, I’m on babysitting duty, too, remember?” I tell her.

“Yeah,” she whispers with a shrug. “But you could’ve just left us playing at the farm while you worked. Instead you decided to take us somewhere fun and spend time with me. And that’s kinda cool.”

Kinda cool? From a nine year-old? Even I know that’s high praise!

“Well… I just wanted you to have a good time. Plus, it’s a really pretty afternoon. Woulda been a shame to waste it on work.”

Would’ve been a shame to waste it on work?? Who am I?

“Still. Thank you.”

“You’re wel⁠—”

“Michael?” Emi’s soft voice cuts me off. “I don’t feel so good.” I twist in my seat on the bleachers to get a better look at her and realize just how pale she looks.

My stomach drops as her phone beeps loudly in her bag. Her insulin levels. Check her insulin levels. Or is it her blood sugar? Fuck.

Moving as fast as I can, I reach her and unzip her backpack, rifling through it to get to her phone. Just like Diana taught me this morning, I open the app, and check Emi’s blood sugar and insulin levels.

Shit…

Few things in my life have felt as painful as watching this first year associate from our firm mumble his way through our presentation and findings, desperately rifling through paperwork for the correct contracts—and I’ve been through a very messy and painstaking divorce. But the frustration running through my veins at watching someone who went through three years of school for something that comes so easily to me is incredible.

“Max?” Edgar asks, clearly sharing my frustration. “I thought you were prepared for this,” he whispers.