“What kind?”
“It doesn’t matter,” he says magnanimously. “Whatever they’re having.”
By the time he sets out, ambling along Riverside, the sun is heavy on his face, and he’s relaxed and happy. Brianna is waiting for him in the doorway of the building with her backpack, and when she catches sight of him, she rushes over, as if to intercept him. She’s wearing her floral dress and vivid lipstick.
Her smile wavers. “Let’s go,” she says, sounding not the least bit glad to see him.
“My truck’s in the shop,” he lies. “Mind driving?”
“Sure.” She heads across the lot, hunched under the straps of her backpack.
Brianna drives a sea-green Beetle, the girly kind from the early aughts with the plastic flower in the vase on the dashboard. When she starts the car, some folksy music blares, but she switches it off. Amadeo’s legs nearly touch the dashboard. He notes the aggressive cleanliness. Box of Kleenex, hand sanitizer, and in the drink holder, a plastic canister of hand wipes.
He flicks the hand sanitizer. “You’re prepared, huh?”
Brianna chews her lip as she pulls out of the lot, her face and throat streaked red as if from a histamine reaction. “So, where should we go?”
Why hadn’t he thought of this? There’s Saints and Sinners or the Dive, but they hardly seem suitable for Brianna’s air of scrubbed sweetness, and besides, he doesn’t need a drink right now. “Are you hungry? We could go out to eat.”
“No,” she yelps. “Someone might see us.”
If it weren’t for the drinks, he might be on the verge of panic now. He looks down into the wheel well at her hiking sandals.
“Want to drive somewhere to watch the sunset?” It’s a romantic gesture, unlike anything he’s ever suggested, and he’s certain she’ll like it.
“Okay,” she says skeptically. “God. I really shouldn’t be doing this. Going on a date with a student’s father. It’s incredibly unprofessional.”
“Are we on a date?” He tries for a teasing tone, but distress suffuses her face.
“Oh.”
“Hey, no, it’s all good.” He touches her shoulder. “It can be a date if you want it to be a date. And if not, we’re just hanging out.”
“Right.” She relaxes, and beside her, Amadeo does, too.
As they drive, Brianna tells him that she rents a casita from some rich lesbians near Chimayo. “We could go there,” she says.
The property is surrounded by a well-maintained latilla fence. Up a dirt drive and then the house itself becomes visible: large and modern and adobe with a generous tiled porch and carved double front doors. Brianna parks next to a pair of matching Priuses and yanks the emergency brake. As they follow the brick walkway that leads around the main house, automatic lights snap on, though the sun hasn’t yet set. Amadeo looks into the bright windows, curious to glimpse the lesbians, but sees only stainless steel track lighting and corners of large abstract canvasses. Beyond the pi?on-scattered hills, the sky is turning orange. Brianna leads him through a garden to a little cottage with a blue door flanked by terra-cotta pots of geraniums. She looks around, as if seeing her house for the first time. “It’s a little more than I wanted to pay, but I figure it’s safer here than right in town. And I get free Wi-Fi and laundry.”
She unlocks the door, then hesitates, as though realizing she’s brought a complete stranger to her threshold. “Do you mind taking off your shoes?”
As he stoops to untie his boots, Amadeo looks around. Inside, everything is cheery and tidy and almost belligerently feminine. The tiny kitchen is accented in red: red dish towels, red trivet. Not a crass plastic bottle of dish soap by the sink, but a red ceramic dispenser. On the stove, a gleaming red enameled pot appears to have never been used. Books on a shelf, arranged in blocks by color, spines lined up （no Mastering Ares in the red section）。 Candles and little accents everywhere: a vase of twigs, a bowl of quartz, and on the windowsill, an antique mason jar filled with clear colored marbles. In the corner, partially obscured by a woven screen, is a low bed with a fluffy white duvet and a scattering of throw pillows. He sees the place through his daughter’s eyes—Angel would love every inch of it. Amadeo stands in the doorway in his gray socks, feeling like a hulk. He could use a drink now.