The First Taste (Slip of the Tongue 2)

“Well.” He hesitates. “Didn’t she just get divorced?”

“Not even. They’re still battling it out.”

“And you’ve been doing this for four years. Remember what it was like in the early days? Wouldn’t you have freaked out too?”

“Yeah. I understand it, but I just don’t think she’s ready.”

“If you feel that way, why’d you get involved with her in the first place?”

“We agreed to keep it casual. No feelings.”

“And you’re upset that she held up her end of the agreement.”

I look at him sidelong, not sure if I’m impressed or annoyed with his emotional ninja skills. “There’s more to it than that.”

“Is it? Jesus. I’ve never seen Amelia giddy, but that’s what she is around you. Normally she’s all business, all the time, to the point I wonder if she even knows how to smile. Not with you, though.”

I wave him off. “It’s the sex.”

He laughs. “Probably. But I think it’s more for her.”

He’s right. I know it. She knows it. It started out as sex, but I think we knew that first night it would never be just that, even if we never saw each other again. Fuck. Knowing others can see what we have makes this even harder to swallow. “I don’t know. Maybe I’m wrong,” I admit. “But she’s going through what I went through years ago with Shana. I sure as fuck wasn’t ready back then to get involved with anyone.”

“So who better to guide her through that than you?” he asks, leaning his elbows on the bar. “I just haven’t seen you excited about anyone since Shana. And Amelia, I’ve never seen her like this. I’d hate to see you both walk away because of pride or fear or whatever you’re hung up on. Everything else aside, how do you feel about her?”

“I told you. I like her. All the things you just said—excited. Giddy. Protective.”

“Then don’t give up on her,” he says, and I don’t have to question why he’s so adamant. He’s been through his own shit with Sadie. He fought for her then, and he’d fight for her again. That kind of love is a gift, and maybe I’ve been given the opportunity to fight for it as well. “Amelia has her rough edges,” he says, “so do you. If you two somehow fit together, that’s a little bit of a miracle, isn’t it?”

It’s true—I can’t imagine anyone out there worse for me than Amelia. She should be with someone like Reggie, someone wealthy, influential, ambitious. I should be with someone who could spend a day talking shit and smoking cigarettes at the garage with me and the guys.

“Plus, Bell seems to like her,” Nathan adds. “I saw how she grabbed her hand before we left.”

My chest tightens. Bell is noticing Amelia, and because she’s just a kid, she’ll trust her. If that’s supposed to make me happy, it doesn’t. What happens if Bell turns ten, and Amelia isn’t there to give her a locket? I didn’t worry about these things before Shana, and since her, I’ve never cared enough to worry.

I nod at Nathan as if I’m agreeing, so we can end the conversation. Because I won’t be able to put into words the fear of Bell and Amelia getting close, and even if I could, he wouldn’t understand.

He will, in about three months, but until he has a little girl of his own, he won’t realize the lengths he’ll go through to protect her.

Or the ways a father would unflinchingly sacrifice his own happiness for his daughter’s.

TWENTY-EIGHT

My mood has been foul since I picked Bell up from the baby shower. Maybe sensing this, Pico invites us all to his mom’s place for dinner. I don’t want company, but the alternative is sitting at home, wondering if I’m making a mistake by not going to Amelia’s. Twice, I’ve gotten out my phone to tell her I’m not coming, to put a definitive end to our relationship, and twice I’ve chickened out.

Bell sits at the kitchen table with crayons and a coloring book. Between her, three guys, and all the place settings, there’s barely room for Flora at her own table.

“Got to get a bigger set up, ma,” Pico says.

“Why are there two extra settings?” I ask.

“Antonio has invited a lady friend,” she says.

“A what?” I ask.

Randy perks up as well. “A lady friend?”

Pico shrugs. “Didn’t I mention? I’m sure I did. Yeah.”

“No,” we say in unison. Pico hasn’t been on a date in over a year, and he hasn’t gotten laid in that long either. We would know.

“She’s lovely,” Flora says. “Her son too. Sammy, is it?”

Bell’s head pops up. “Sammy’s coming?”

I gawk at Pico. “You’re dating Sammy’s mom?”

“Yeah. Why? Were you interested?” he mocks. “Too bad. She chose me.”

“I’m not interested.” I nod discreetly at Bell. “But you’ll have that to deal with if things go south.”

The doorbell rings, and Pico leaves the room. He’s changed out of his clothes from the shop and fixed his hair. Maybe I haven’t been paying as close attention as I thought. He returns with Myra, who has her hands on Sammy’s shoulders as she leads him into the kitchen.

“Hey, Bell,” he mutters, his gaze bouncing from her to me to Pico to his mom and back to Pico. Sammy’s a year older than Bell, and he seems to already grasp what’s going on. Fuck dating as a single parent.

Bell passes Sammy a yellow crayon and shows him what she’s working on—a monkey at a zoo. “You can color the bananas, but stay inside the lines. My dad will probably put this on the fridge.”

I smile sheepishly as Pico and Randy groan. I think Flora might even snort. “I can’t remember a time I saw a wall without a coloring book page taped to it,” Randy says, referring to my office at the garage, which is covered with them.

“Myra understands,” I say, turning to her. “Don’t you hang Sammy’s things?”

“Not if I can help it,” she says. “He didn’t exactly get the creative gene.”

Bell pauses, her concentration lines easing, as if she’s deciding whether or not to proceed with this duet she’s just orchestrated. She checks Sammy’s work and, seemingly pleased, returns to coloring.

“Thank you for having us,” Myra says.

“You know you’re all welcome any time,” she says. “Even if it is extremely last minute.”

“Sorry about that, Mrs. Picolli,” Randy says. Despite tormenting Pico with mom jokes, he’s been nothing but polite tonight.

“It’s no trouble. What’s the occasion anyway?”

“Beckwith needs the stick removed from his ass,” Pico says. “We figured your spaghetti bolognese’d do the trick.”

Bell swaps her brown crayon for pink, inspects the bananas, and says, “Let’s turn the page. The next one is under water.”

Sammy shrugs.

“What’s the matter, Andrew?” Flora asks. “Lady problems got you down?”

Amelia wasn’t at the baby shower when I returned to get Bell. It was better that way. I didn’t say I’d show tonight, and she shouldn’t expect me to. I don’t really have much to say to these guys about that. Amelia’s an alien in our world of coveralls, carbs, and car parts. There is, however, one name that will make them all understand the reason for my permanent scowl.

I glance once more at Bell. The tip of her tongue is stuck out the side of her mouth as she alternates between green and blue to fill in fish scales. “Bell, ears.”

She slumps her shoulders and makes a noise from the back of her throat. “But—”

“Ears.”

She slams her crayon on the table, puts both hands over her ears, and begins reciting the alphabet.

I look back at the table. “Shana’s back in town.”

“What?” Pico asks.

Flora brings an oven-mitt-clad hand to her mouth. “No.”

I nod at Bell. “Showed up at gymnastics last week.”

Pico’s nostrils flare. “What a cun—”

“Antonio Leonardo Picolli,” Flora says. “Language.”

Bell giggles, the way she always does when she hears Pico’s full name, and I realize she’s stopped talking.

“What comes after G?” I ask.

She sighs. “H, I, J . . .”

“What’d she want?” Randy asks.