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When Zoe was a teenager, Tessa and Jade encouraged me to go on dates. I went on a few, but considering men romantically while having a teenage daughter in the back of your mind was distracting. I was constantly thinking, would I introduce this guy to her? Would I want him around her? Would he be a good influence?
The nuances of raising a human being that you wanted to someday find a healthy relationship were complex.
And the answers were usually no. The quality of the men I went out with was terrible. They were definitely not worthy of being in my daughter’s life.
Vibrators are more reliable, and I’ve got a good one.
However, vibrators don’t have tattoos and tongue piercing and that V of muscles that I’d really like to run my tongue along.
Not Chris’s. Just . . . a hot guy.
After several hours of distracted work, it’s time to start dinner. The first course is crudites with hummus—which I’ve already made—followed by kale and mushroom crepes with a white sauce and Zoe’s favorite chocolate mousse—also already made.
I’m pulling out the vegetables when Chris comes in.
“Okay,” he says, clapping his hands. “Put me to work.”
I point to the counter. “You can slice the cucumbers and make carrot sticks. I’ll get started on the mushrooms.”
He gives me a thumbs-up and opens the cabinet closest to him. Then closes it and opens the next one.
“Looking for the cutting board?”
He nods.
“The drawer under the knife block. Grab me one too.”
I put my head in the fridge, looking for the mushrooms which have fallen back behind the spinach. I hear the drawer opening and closing and then the slick of the knives coming out of the knife block.
I grab two containers of mushrooms, then open the drawer and pull out the giant bundle of curly kale.
I nudge the door closed with my hip and put my produce to the left of my cutting board. I glance over at Chris and freeze.
He’s got a steak knife in one hand and a look of pure concentration on his face as he bends over the counter, slicing the unpeeled cucumber into rounds of varying thickness.
I clear my throat. “Do you like cucumbers?”
“Sure,” he responds absentmindedly, in a way I’m learning means “not really.”
He’s put a steak knife on my cutting board too. I pick it up and sweep around him. “I prefer a chef’s knife for work like this. Do you want one too?”
Chris straightens up and frowns at the knife block.
“Sure?”
I give him the chef’s knife and take the santoku knife for myself.
He holds it up and, in a terrible Australian accent, says, “Now that’s a knife.” His smile is mischievous, and I can’t help but return it. He holds the steak knife up to the chef’s knife. “You know they swear size doesn’t matter, but I’m getting a different vibe here.”
I tilt my head at him. “Are you making jokes because you don’t know what you’re doing?”
“Yes.”
I pause. “Would you rather be in charge of the wine?”
“Also, yes.”
I laugh and gesture with my chin at the fridge. “Bottle of Riesling on the door.”
