She makes a small bleating noise. Her pink, cupid bow lips purse into a pout that makes her cute chubby face even more adorable. I lean down and give her a peck. She coos and all is right in my world.
“I don’t think she’s a fan.” I hand the avocado back to my friend. “I’m fine with peanut butter toast.”
“Your dog eats peanut butter.”
“Dobbie has elevated taste buds.”
“He licks his own butthole.”
“He’s a dog. He’s supposed to lick his own butthole and bark and chase his tail. These are dog things and I can’t prevent him from doing these things or else I risk disorder in the universe. I won’t be responsible for the consequences of that.”
“Then eat an avocado.” Mae stretches out her long, dancer arms and waves the food in front of Anna. “What do you think, my darling girl? Shall we make avocado mush and grow to be big and strong?”
My daughter, ever the wise one despite her young age, pushes Mae’s hands away and points to something on the shelf.
“Broccoli? That’s my girl. I knew I was raising you right.” Mae snatches up a sad-looking bundle of the greenery and shakes it triumphantly in my direction.
Thinking Mae is playing with her, Anna makes a grab for it. My friend barely escapes with the bushel intact.
“Whew, she’s quick. She must get her good reflexes from her dad,” Mae says. At the D-word, Anna’s head jerks toward Mae. My friend slaps a hand over her mouth. “Oh fuc-dge,” she exclaims. “I’m so sorry, Kate! It just slipped out.”
I take a brief moment to curse the sperm donor and then give my friend a sympathetic pat on the back. Pushing the cart forward, I say, “Forget it. It’s not like he’s Voldemort. He’s not going to appear just because you say his name.”
If that were the case, I would’ve conjured him a million times when I was pregnant with Anna.
“I’m still sorry. It was dumb. I hope it doesn’t bother her.” Mae tips her head in the direction of my daughter, who has abandoned the grapes and is now studying the avocado.
“She’s fine.” I reach over and grab the fruit. “It’s a new word for her.” It was in a book we’d read the other night. I sensed that the word interested her, maybe because I stumbled over it and then sat there for a long time trying to figure out how to explain to my daughter that her dad abandoned us once he found out she was on the way.
The asshole. While I was pregnant, I read a child-rearing book that said that you should never criticize your kid’s parent because it can poison the relationship. But you can’t have a relationship with someone who won’t acknowledge your existence.
“Right.” Mae adopts a cheerful expression. “It’s just one word in a whole world of words. It’s meaningless. It’s—oh my fucking God. It’s Voldemort.”
Mae flings her arm out, pointing toward the end of the aisle as if she’s seen a ghost. Her outburst catches the attention of a tall, broad-shouldered figure. My jaw drops and my blood pressure rises. Beside me, Mae shouts something, but I can’t make it out because a roar of outrage is detonating in my head at this very moment.
My stomach roils and the coffee and bagel I savored this morning climb up the back of my throat. The six-foot four-inch frame of Jack Harris begins to twist on those shiny dress shoes of his and his beautiful face comes into view. His jawline is sharp. His cheekbones sit high on an oval face. One eyebrow is arched high. Lush lips part in surprise as he takes in what must be an odd picture—two women open-mouthed and growing red like the tomatoes stacked on the shelves and a baby starting to cry in her carrier.
It’s as if we’re all in slow motion. Me, turning slowly with my feet puttied to the floor. Him, doing his best imitation of Neo in The Matrix bending backwards to avoid being struck, only this time it’s not bullets that are flying in his direction, but it’s an avocado—the one from my cart.
I didn’t even register reaching beside Anna and plucking it from my cart. I don’t remember winding my arm back like I’m a pitcher and flinging it, but it must’ve been me.
“Is there something wrong?” he calls, brushing a hand against his expensive suit coat.
“Since when do you wear suits?” I yell irrationally. Like wearing suits instead of his ordinary uniform of blue jeans and white T-shirts is the worst sin he’s committed.
“Since…forever,” he answers. Confusion mars his perfect brow.
It’s his playacting that lights the fuse of my temper. If he’d apologized, if he’d at least said my name, if he’d done anything but act as if he’d never seen me before let alone had his dick and tongue and fingers inside me a hundred times, maybe I would’ve been able to corral my rage. But his stupid eyebrow and his stupid beautiful face and his stupid fake confusion unwind something primal inside me.