The First Taste (Slip of the Tongue 2)

“Let me walk with you,” I say. “At least to the train. You’re upset.”

She shakes her head. “I’m going to the office.”

“Then I’ll walk you there—”

“I’m fine. Really. I’ll get a cab.”

I put my hands in my pockets. “Are we good? Can I call you tonight?”

She hesitates and then nods, smiling. “Yes. Of course. Once I’ve gotten some work done, I’ll feel better. I’m always anxious when boxes on my to-do list go unchecked for more than a day.”

I don’t tell her I understand because I’m not sure I do. There are times, when my mood is dark, that burying myself under a hood feels like the only thing I can do. It got me through a lot with Shana and that’s possibly the reason the garage is doing so well today. I guess that’s how Amelia feels, so I can’t really begrudge her that, even though I think she works too hard.

She turns away.

“Hey, whoa,” I say. “Can a boyfriend get a kiss?”

She stops and turns back slowly. Her expression is passive. I can’t tell how she feels about my new title, and it makes me a little uneasy. She takes a few steps toward me, rises onto the balls of her feet, and kisses my cheek. Before I can grasp her, keep her there, show her how to really kiss her boyfriend goodbye, she’s hurrying off, slinking between the barricades that block off the street. Clutching her purse to her side, she steps into the street. Within seconds of raising an arm, she’s hailed a cab that scoops her away.

TWENTY-THREE

At times, occasionally, I’ve been accused of exaggerating when it comes to Bell.

But evidence doesn’t lie.

As soon as Bell walks into gymnastics, her friends perk up and yell for her to join them. Her coaches wave. Parents smile. She brightens up any room she’s in, including one as large and well-lit as this gymnasium. She takes off for the group of girls gathered in the center, and I start to call her back but stop myself. I’m not into this new thing where she forgets I’m around as soon as she sees someone else, but that’s what I’m supposed to want for her. She should be excited about what’s ahead of her rather than too anxious to leave my side. Still, my gut sinks watching her skip off.

But then, she skids to a halt and turns around. She sprints back to me, and I ooph as she jumps into my arms. “Promise me you’ll stay and watch,” she says.

“When have I ever not?” I kiss her forehead before removing her shoes and putting her down. “I’ll be right over there in the bleachers.”

I sling Bell’s hot pink, rainbow-glittered duffel bag over my shoulder and find a seat. I didn’t use to ooph when I caught her. Either I’m getting older, or she’s getting bigger. I prefer to pretend it’s neither of the two.

Kiki Brown spots me and shuffles her daughter in my direction. “Andrew,” she says, fixing the collar of her white blouse. “How are you?”

“Fine.” I nod at her daughter. “Hi, Brynn.”

“Where’s Bell?” she asks.

“Don’t be rude,” Kiki says with a nervous laugh. “Say hello first.”

“Hello. Where’s Bell?”

“Brynn. Try again.”

Jesus Christ, I want to say. Let the girl go see her fucking friends. Brynn scowls but says, “Hello, Mr. Beckwith.” Then, she goes quiet since she can’t ask the only thing she wants to know. “Um. How are you?”

I point to the group. “She’s with the girls, warming up.”

Brynn drops her things and hurries away.

“Sorry about that,” Kiki says, her bracelets jingling as she picks up Brynn’s bag. “We’re working on her manners.”

“Fuck—manners? Was I supposed to be working on those?”

She hesitates as if she’s not sure I’m joking and then gives in to a smile. “It’s never too early. How was your Friday night? Have some fun?”

She asks me something along these lines every time I see her, as if my life is one big bundle of fun and oh yeah—I have a daughter too. This Friday, it happens to be true, but that’s not what she wants to hear. She’s just keeping tabs on my love life.

“It was fine. Yours?”

She rolls her eyes. “Ron had some bullshit in the city that apparently prevented him from making it home.” She glances toward the girls and stretches her hands toward the ceiling, arching her back, showing off a sliver of her flat stomach. “We were up late arguing. I could use a coffee.”

“Yeah,” is all I can think to say. I was up late too. There could’ve been some arguing, I was with Amelia after all, but I couldn’t tell you who won. I smile to myself.

“My treat?” she suggests.

“Nah. I stay for the practices.”

She widens her eyes. “Always? Don’t you get bored?”

“Not really. I don’t have anything better to do.”

“Nothing at all?” she asks, half-smiling. “We should work on that. Find you something better to do.”

I look past her at Bell, who’s directing the girls into a circle for their stretches as the coach stands back and lets her. Give the kid an inch, I swear. Her coach should know that by now. “What I mean is, I really can’t think of anything I’d rather be doing.”

“Oh, I don’t believe that.” She plays with the strap of Brynn’s bag, sliding her hand up and down the polyester. “There must be at least one thing you’d rather be doing than sitting here.”

I’d rather she just came out and said what she wanted. This suggestive flirting annoys me, especially when Bell is a few feet away.

It’s not just the fact that she’s married that gets to me. It’s that she and her friends think I’d have no problem taking an hour to give her what she isn’t getting from her husband because I’ve got tattoos, a bike, and a bastard child by my wild ex-girlfriend. As if I have no principles or standards.

“Not a thing, Kiki,” I say quietly in case anyone is within hearing distance. “I suggest you look elsewhere. Like at home. You might find something to do there. Do you mind?”

“Mind?” she asks, touching her collar.

I nod at her. “You’re blocking my view.”

“Oh.” She adjusts Brynn’s bag on her shoulder and mutters, “Well, I’ll just . . . coffee—”

She walks away, her heels clomping on the gym floor. I could almost feel bad about embarrassing her if I had time to wonder what drives her to come onto someone who doesn’t want her. But I can’t muster enough interest. Between Bell and Amelia, I don’t have much more attention to spare.

As if on cue, because God knows the woman has a sixth sense for bad timing, I see her. She steps out of the shadows, and the air around me evaporates. She’s worse than a sucker punch.

Nobody ever took my breath away like Shana.

Shana is the same as I remember her: jeans painted on from hip to ankle, a low-cut halter in any shade of dark, and jet-black hair that’s either slick-straight or, like today, wild and curly. She walks toward me with her hands in her back pockets, her elbows out, her hips sashaying from side to side. She has a small waist, and T&A that make men stupid. It takes her long enough to reach me that I can see the edges of new ink from the waistband of her low-rise jeans.

Neither of us speaks. As if I have a clue what to say. I used to fantasize about this moment and how I’d react. Sometimes I’d hug her as she broke down in regretful sobs. Sometimes I’d shake her good and hard, demanding to know why. Now, all I can do is stare and wait for her to evaporate in front of my eyes.

She doesn’t.

“Hey,” she says, removing one hand to wipe her palm on her jeans.

She looks the same. As if she was just out at the salon for a few hours.

“How are you?” she asks.