“Thanks.” I add a little bit more salt to the mashed potatoes, which are already drenched in butter and cream. “Can you tell Cecelia to come down? I called her twice but…” Actually, I called up to her three times. She has not yet answered me.
Andrew nods. “Gotcha.”
Shortly after Andrew disappears into the dining room and calls her name, I hear her quick footsteps on the staircase. So that’s how it’s going to be.
I put together two plates containing the steak, mashed potatoes, and a side of broccoli. The portions are smaller on Cecelia’s plate, and I am not going to enforce whether she eats the broccoli or not. If her father wants her to eat it, he can make her do it. But I would be remiss if I didn’t provide vegetables. When I was growing up, my mother always made sure to have a serving of vegetables on a dinner plate.
I’m sure she’s still wondering where she went wrong with raising me.
Cecelia is wearing another of her overly fancy dresses in an impractical pale color. I’ve never seen her wear normal kid clothing, and it just seems wrong. You can’t play in the dresses Cecelia wears—they’re too uncomfortable and they show every speck of dirt. She sits down at one of the chairs at the dining table, takes the napkin I laid out, and places it down on her lap daintily. For a moment, I’m a bit charmed. Then she opens her mouth.
“Why did you give me water?” She crinkles her nose at the glass of filtered water I put at her place setting. “I hate water. Get me apple juice.”
If I had spoken to somebody like that when I was a child, my mother would have smacked my hand and told me to say “please.” But Cecelia isn’t my child, and I haven’t managed to endear myself to her yet in the time I’ve been here. So I smile politely, take the water away, and bring her a glass of apple juice.
When I place the new glass in front of her, she carefully examines it. She holds it up to the light, narrowing her eyes. “This glass is dirty. Get me another one.”
“It’s not dirty,” I protest. “It just came out of the dishwasher.”
“It’s smudged.” She makes a face. “I don’t want it. Give me another one.”
I take a deep, calming breath. I’m not going to fight with this little girl. If she wants a new glass for her apple juice, I’ll get her a new glass.
As I’m fetching Cecelia her new glass, Andrew comes out to the dining table. He’s removed his tie and unbuttoned the top button on his white dress shirt. Just the tiniest hint of chest hair peeks out. And I have to look away.
Men are something I am still learning how to navigate in my post-incarceration life. And by “learning,” I of course mean that I am completely avoiding it. At my last job waitressing at that bar—my only job since I got out— customers would inevitably ask me out. I always said no. There just isn’t room in my messed-up life right now for something like that. And of course, the men who asked me were men I wouldn’t have ever wanted to go out with.
I went to prison when I was seventeen. I wasn’t a virgin, but my only experiences included clumsy high school sex. Over my time in jail, I would sometimes feel the tug around attractive male guards. Sometimes the tug was almost painful. And one of the things I looked forward to when I got out was the possibility of having a relationship with a man. Or even just feeling a man’s lips against mine. I want it. Of course I do.
But not now. Someday.
Still, when I look at a man like Andrew Winchester, I think about the fact that I haven’t even touched a man in over a decade—not like that, anyway. He’s not anything like those creeps at the seedy bar where I used to wait tables. When I do eventually put myself back out there, he’s the sort of man I’m looking for. Except obviously not married.
An idea occurs to me: if I ever want to release a little tension, Enzo might be a good candidate. No, he doesn’t speak English. But if it’s just one night, it shouldn’t matter. He looks like he would know what to do without having to say much. And unlike Andrew, he doesn’t wear a wedding ring—although I can’t help but wonder about this Antonia person, whose name is tattooed on his arm.
I wrench myself from my fantasies about the sexy landscaper as I return to the kitchen to retrieve the two plates of food. Andrew’s eyes light up when he sees the juicy steak, seared to perfection. I am really proud of how it came out.
“This looks incredible, Millie!” he says.
“Thanks,” I say.
I look over at Cecelia, who has the opposite response. “Yuck! This is steak.” Stating the obvious, I guess.