Page 62 of Love What's Left
“Gabriel has talked about being a dad since we were kids ourselves. I’ve known him most of my life.” She shrugs. “There was a period of time that was kind of rough. He wasn’t talking about much of anything then. But he loves children.”
I thought so. He makes a beeline for the baby the second he sees him. Henry, Franki, Ian, and their little sausage dog are staying in the bungalow on the edge of the property. So we’re seeing them every day.
Why did I say no kids? What changed? Or is one of us unable?
Franki takes her phone from the diaper bag where it rests on the stool next to her and pokes around on it. “I sent Clarissa a text. You probably have some photos of Jeanine, but you’d have to go back years to find them. I think that’s who you remembered.”
“You think Jeanine taught me how to make pizza?”
“Your description was spot-on. She was Clarissa’s chef when you were housemates in college.”
The scent of baking dough and sauce teases my senses, and the memories solidify. Another bright, beautiful kitchen, this one in Pennsylvania. Me, insisting that I should do chores since Clarissa didn’t charge me rent. Clarissa, with her auburn hair and freckles and in-the-clouds attitude about moneysaid, “No. The house has a chef and a housekeeper. You don’t need to do anything.”
But I felt like I had to do something to make myself less disposable. So I started hanging out with Jeanine. It wasn’t that different from living in a group home . . . except for the part where the house was gorgeous, and I was living in it with people I loved. Still, it was temporary. Always temporary.
Clarissa and Bronwyn. I did love them.Ido. Janessa and Jeanine too. I’ve been texting Clarissa, Bronwyn, and Janessa a lot the past few weeks. And I liked them, but I didn’t remember them until this moment.
Franki’s phone and mine both chime a text alert, and she smiles with satisfaction. “Ask, and you shall receive.”
She holds up the phone with an image of me, Clarissa, and a short plump White woman in a black chef’s jacket. “Jeanine,” I say.
“Yup.”
The sound of male voices in the hallway filters in. My husband enters, wearing another of his bowling shirts, this one purple and green. His gaze shoots straight for me like a missile.
I grin and glance at his name tag.Gabriel. Sooner or later, it has to stick.
My brother-in-law follows directly behind, then goes still at the sight that greets him. Henry’s gaze darts from me to Ian in my arms, then back up.
When Franki steps closer and lifts her face for a kiss, Henry gives her one but never closes his eyes or looks away from me. Does he think I’ll freak out while holding his baby?
“I’d never hold him if I wasn’t sure I was okay,” I say.
Henry gives a jerky nod. “I know.”
Gabriel scowls at Henry, I presume because of his attitude toward me.
“Ian is fine. He’s happy,” Franki assures Henry gently.
Henry stuffs both his hands in his pockets and smiles without showing his teeth. “Of course he is. Of course.” Abruptly, he steps toward me, removing his hands from his pockets and reaching for his son. “I’m certain he’s perfectlysafeandhappywith you, Sydney, but, technically, I’m on paternity leave. Therefore, I should take advantage of the available time with my son for an optimal parent-child bonding experience.”
I pass Ian over immediately, and they both light up like Christmas trees, Henry’s smile widening as he looks down at his child, and Ian’s open-mouthed grin expanding into a full-blown baby chortle.
Franki bumps my shoulder with hers. “Gah. That man makes my ovaries explode.”
Though he never looks our way, the crease in Henry’s lean cheek deepens. When he reaches up with one hand, takes off his glasses, and tosses them onto the counter, Franki shivers. I have no idea why. The oven and the A/C are in a knock-down, drag-out fight in this room, and the oven is winning.
“You’d think he hadn’t seen his kid in a week. It’s been three hours,” Gabriel says.
“As if you won’t be exactly the same when you have them,” Henry says.
Gabriel’s expression remains the same, with sparkling eyes and that perfect smile, but the humor on my husband’s face turns to plastic. “You keep the walking-the-floors-with-a-crying-kid thing. I need my beauty sleep.”
His words sound like a joke, but they reek of insincerity to me. Concerned, I touch his side.
He looks my way, then reaches out and gently swipes my cheek, before showing me the white residue on his thumb. “What’s this?”
“Flour. I cooked lunch.”
