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“Business doesn’t sleep on birthdays,” Sula tells us. “Besides, I have to live up to my mantra: work hard, play hard. Everyone knows Tacos and Tangos is trashed-Sula night. I’ll still be dancing on tables while you children stumble off to your beds.”
Toni sighs. “She’s such a Sagittarius.”
—
“Tacos and Tangos, huh?” I peer around as we step into a classic loft-style apartment—exposed brick, tall ceilings, industrial finishes.
“Tacos and Tangos,” Bea confirms, her gaze scouring the gathering of people. The place could be painfully echoey, but colorful tapestries hang along the walls, and large abstract-print rugs cover the wide-plank wood floors, soaking up sound.
“So,” she says, shrugging off her jacket.
I shrug mine off with Bea’s help as she lifts it from where it’s draped over my shoulder with the sling. She takes it and hangs our coats beside each other. “So?”
“I’m just checking in,” she says, “making sure you’re okay, given—”
“Christopher!” Margo hollers from the kitchen. “Stop feeding my child sugar.”
My gaze swivels to a hot pink club chair, where the jerk in question sits with a baby (toddler? who the hell knows) in his lap, holding what looks like a churro for them to gnaw on.
“It was the churro or my finger!” he calls back. “She’s just sucking it more than anything, anyway. Is she teething?”
“When isn’t she?” Margo says over her shoulder, walking up to us, giving both Bea and me bracing hugs, even with my sling, which goes a little way to make up for the fact that Christopher’s here. “You came! I saved you tacos!”
“Sorry we’re late,” Bea says. “We had to circle back for shoes with low tread.”
“And Sula’s gift.” I lift the bag containing her scarf.
Bea hands over a bottle of tequila with a bow on it.
“Thank you kindly. I’ll take those.” Margo gathers the giftsinto her arms, then inspects our footwear. “Tell me those aren’t your low-tread shoes.”
We both shake our heads. “We’ve got flats in our bags,” Bea tells her.
“Good,” Margo says. “ ’Cause the tango in Docs, good luck with that.”
“Jamie’s coming,” Bea tells her. “He’s just working at the shelter this week, but he said he’d be here—”
“As soon as possible,” Jamie says from right behind us.
Bea spins and practically jumps into his arms for a hug. I watch him kiss her on the temple and breathe her in. It’s the visual version of hearing a language I don’t know—melodic, mysterious. I feel like I’m seeing something intimate and private, so I look away.
“Christopher’s drugging Rowan with refined sugar,” Margo tells me. “But once he’s done, I want you to meet her! For now, while my child’s happily occupied, let’s get you fed and liquored up.”
As we stroll toward the open-concept kitchen, I get a closer look at Rowan. She has a gorgeous halo of Margo’s tight black curls and gazes up at Christopher like everyone else seems to—with a sickening level of adoration.
I roll my eyes.
Standing in the kitchen, housing a veggie taco, I try not to look at Christopher. But my attention insistently swivels back to him. There’s something odd stirring low in my stomach, seeing Christopher hold this little person so comfortably, getting cinnamon sugar all over his business suit, which probably costs more than most people’s monthly rent. He still wears his suit coat, which is a dark, moody charcoal against his crisp white button-up. The tie’s gone, his shirt unbuttoned a few, enough for my eyes to fasten on a wedge of golden skin, a shadow of dark hair.
Rowan shoves her churro in Christopher’s face, but unfortunately he catches it just before she can smash it into his nose. Aslow, sweet smile lifts his mouth as he says something to make her giggle that I can’t hear.
The moment vividly reminds me of his dad, whom he’s built so much like, and I think about what Christopher would be like as a father. My stomach does a funny twist again.
I want to say he’d be a terrible dad. Harsh. Impatient. Perennially dissatisfied. Except that’s only how he is with me, apparently. Watching him with Rowan, I can’t help but think he’d be an amazing father, smiling down at his kid like he is now, making Rowan laugh as he does a swift maneuver that involves tickling her until she drops the churro, and slipping it out of sight before tickling her again.
“Yeah,” Sula says, sidling up to me with a cocktail I don’t even look at. I just take a healthy swig, because Lord, do I need it. “He’s good with her. And it’s not even some angle he’s working to bag a lady. The only single folks here are guys, and Christopher’s unfortunately a confirmed straight, otherwise Phil would beperfectfor him.” She grimaces. “Wait, well, except you. You’re single, too. Anyway. Hi! You came. It’s been a long hour and a half since I saw you. Were you this tall last time?”
I pat Sula’s shoulder. “Happy birthday, Sula. You’re very drunk already, aren’t you?”
