The First Taste (Slip of the Tongue 2)

She nods.

“I never really felt that way. I mean, my life is pretty good. There’s this one thing that happens sometimes, though, and it drives me crazy. I’m pretty lucky Bell is clearly a Beckwith—she looks just like Sadie when she was Bell’s age. But occasionally she’ll make a face or say something a certain way or her body language . . . it’ll be exactly like Shana. And I get this gut reaction. Hate. Anger. For that moment, it’s directed at Bell, even though she’s innocent in all this.”

“That sounds normal,” she says. “I don’t think you’re alone in that.”

“Probably not. I don’t let Bell or anyone else see that reaction, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t happen. I feel so guilty after it passes.”

Amelia’s body has loosened considerably, and I don’t even think she notices. “Andrew, nobody would judge you for feeling that way. Imagine how many children look like ex-husbands or deceased wives, and how common—”

With my free hand, I slip the tie off her face. She blinks a few times as her pupils constrict. Her vision adjusts, and her eyes are unguarded, light.

“Still okay?” I ask.

She looks down at my hand around her wrists, how it binds them tightly together. “I think so,” she says.

“You’re okay.” I smile a little. “I shouldn’t have blindfolded you.”

“No,” she says quickly, glancing up. “It was fine, actually. It was . . . good.”

“I meant because I like to see your eyes,” I say and leave it at that so I don’t get sappy enough to send her running.

“Oh.” She takes a deep breath and smiles, albeit shyly. “So, were we going to . . . or is that it?”

“Believe me, we’re going to.” I release her hands. “But at least for tonight, I’ll let you see.”

She tucks some of her hair behind her ear. “Well, next time—”

She stops, but my imagination picks up immediately where she left off. What would next time be like? Amelia blindfolded on the bed? Or her hands bound behind her back, inviting my mouth to her tits? Maybe eventually, over time, she’d let me live out the entire fantasy—vision, touch, control, taste. All mine.

“Anyway,” she says, glancing to the side.

I pinch her chin and pull her face to mine, pecking her once on the lips. “Next time would be nice. I have your card.” Before she can object, because I know she will, I continue. “Let’s just worry about tonight. I still have loads more plans for you. But first,” I take my cell phone out of my breast pocket, “I need to be a daddy for a second.”

She blinks at me. “A daddy? Is that another . . . fantasy of yours?”

“God, no.” I grimace and as an afterthought, hold up my palms. “Not that there’s anything wrong with that if you’re into it—”

“No, I wasn’t saying—”

“It’s just that since I am a dad, it weirds me out—”

“Oh.” Her expression lightens, and she laughs a little. “You have to call Bell.”

“Just to say goodnight. It’ll only take a moment.”

“Of course,” she says, crossing and then uncrossing her arms. “I’m sure it means a lot to her.”

“And me. Putting her to bed—don’t get me wrong, it can be a struggle—but it’s one of my favorite parts of the day. She doesn’t go down easy, so I have to read to her or have her read to me—” I pause. Amelia’s eyes have glossed over. If it were any other person, dismissing Bell would piss me off, but with Amelia, it’s better that she isn’t interested in my daughter. “I need to learn when to shut up. I go overboard when it comes to her.”

Amelia looks down a second, which seems to be the only response I’ll get from her.

“I’ll, uh, just step out.” I take my phone into the hallway. It’s a non-smoking floor, but I light one anyway and dial the house.

“Beckwith residence,” Flora answers.

“Hey. It’s me. Bell still awake?”

“What do you think?” she asks.

I chuckle. “Bottom shelf of the bookcase in the living room. Look for The Frog Prince. She loves Grimms’ Fairy Tales, but she doesn’t yet know that one’s her least favorite. It usually puts her to sleep. I only use it in emergencies so she doesn’t catch on.”

“I’ll give it a shot,” she says. “But she’s been . . . more restless than usual. Maybe you could tell her a quick story? To calm her down?”

“Pass the phone,” I say with a sigh. Flora can normally handle herself, so it must be bad.

“Princess Bell,” Flora says away from the receiver. “Your prince is on the phone.”

“Daddy,” Bell screeches. I take a drag while she gets to the phone. “Are you coming home now?” she asks.

“Not yet, Bluebell. Are you being good for Mrs. Picolli?”

“You promised you’d be home before I went to bed.”

I exhale smoke up at the ceiling, shaking my head. This is exactly what I was just describing to Amelia. Bell gets the same tone Shana used to get when she’s testing how far she can push me. “I didn’t say that.”

“Yes you did—”

“What have I told you about lying? We don’t lie. And you never, ever lie to your father. Do you hear me?”

She sniffles. “I’m sorry. I just m-miss you. Please come home.”

My throat gets thick in an instant, the way it does when I know she’s trying to keep tears in. It’s sometimes worse than when she actually cries. I shouldn’t have snapped at her, not when she’s already upset, but any form of lying is unacceptable in our house.

Suddenly, I can’t stomach the thought of smoking, but there’s nowhere to put out the cigarette. I keep it between my fingers and scratch my eyebrow. “I’m sorry, kid. I’m not angry. Go get in bed. Flora’ll read you a story, and you’ll fall asleep in minutes. By the time you wake up, I’ll be home.”

She hiccups. “No.”

Fuck. I know what’s coming. I try to stop it, even though I know it’s in vain. “Bell, please don’t—”

“I miss you,” she sobs into the phone. Unlike before, when she was throwing a tantrum, her cries are weighty, hopeless, as if I just confessed to killing her puppy or that I made plans to ship her off to boarding school. They’re the familiar, late-night sobs of a confused toddler asking where Mommy went months ago. “I won’t go to sleep. Not until you come home. Please, Daddy. I’m scared.”

I press the meat of my palm to my forehead. All the nasty things Shana ever said to me, all the names my dad called me growing up, nothing hurts an ounce as much as this. Listening to my daughter beg me to be with her when I’m not is sheer torture.

“Bell, honey,” Flora says in the background. “The sooner you let Daddy get back to his party, the sooner he’ll be home.”

“Leave me alone,” she says, but there’s no fight in her voice, just wobbling defeat. “He’s my dad. You don’t know him or me.”

“Come on, Bell,” I say. “That’s not fair to Flora.”

“No. I won’t go to sleep. I’ll stay up all night and wait for you. I swear, I won’t even get in bed—”

“Bell—”

“No! No, no, no, no, n—”

“Okay,” I say, anything to make it stop. “Okay. All right. I’ll . . . I’ll come h

ome.”

She sniffs. “You will? Now?”

“It’ll take me a while to get there. Please go lie down and let Flora read to you until I’m there.”

“You promise?” she asks, hiccupping again. “Swear?”

I look at the ground. I know in my gut she’ll be asleep when I get home. But if I lie to her, and she wakes up to find me not where I said I’d be, I can’t bear to think how it would hurt her. “I swear.”

“Okay. I’ll go to bed, but I promise I won’t sleep. Not until you come say goodnight.”

“All right.” I sigh, not sure what to feel about the fact that the heaviness in her voice has vanished. It’s one thing to be played for a fool by a six-year-old, but it’s another to let it happen repeatedly. “Put Flora on the phone.”

“I can’t remember the lyrics to Deep Purple. Will you sing it for me?”

“Deep Purple?” I ask, leaning back against the hallway wall. “I haven’t played that for you yet. You been going through my music?” I don’t wait for her answer, since I know what it’ll be. She loves to steal my phone at the shop and play with it. Instead of downloading games like regular kids, she explores my music. Quickly, I rattle off a verse of “Hush” and a string of nah-nahs. “That’s enough,” I say. “I’ll sing the rest when I get home.”

“Okay. Here’s Flora.”

Flora’s barely on the line when I say, “I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t worry.” She lowers her voice. “But she needs boundaries, Andrew. You can’t come running every time she cries.”

“I know.” I take one last smoke, even though I feel a little sick. “I should come back anyway. I’ll be home in about an hour.”

She sighs. “If you think that’s best.”

“See you soon.” I end the call, turn around, and freeze when I see Amelia in the doorway.

“I smelled the smoke,” she says.

“Yeah.” I hold it up. “I’m done with it.”