17
At three thirty the following Friday, I kept my word to Xavier. I can’t lie. I thought about canceling. That’s what happens when the cute sweater dress you wear to work for once gets stained in three separate places with acrylic paints and coffee, so you have to change into your spare jeans and a Care Bears sweatshirt fished out of the lost and found. Xavier would be dressed like he walked out of Esquire, while I looked like I was made out of Play-Doh. Fantastic.
But this wasn’t about me, I kept reminding myself. And everything else about the day seemed to be lining up perfectly. Sofia was in great spirits when I picked her up from preschool, and New York was blessed with unseasonably warm weather for the end of January. Most of the snow had melted off the sidewalks, and the slides would actually be dry. I couldn’t begrudge Sofia an afternoon outdoors. Just like I couldn’t begrudge her a chance to meet her dad. Not anymore.
“The park is that way, Mama,” Sofia said as we walked past the entrance and continued back toward P.S. 058.
“I know, bean. But my friend is meeting us outside my school. We’ll pick him up and walk back.”
“Why do you keep calling him ‘my friend,’ Mommy?”
I squeezed Sofia’s little hand. “Why wouldn’t I?”
“You call everyone else by their names. Aunt Kate is Aunt Kate. Zio is Uncle Mattie or just Mattie. Kim. Adam. Derek. Fatima.”
I had to chuckle as she continued to rattle off every friend, coworker, or acquaintance of mine she’d ever met. My girl never missed a beat.
“You’re too quick, kid,” I told her. “This friend’s name is Xavier.”
Her button nose wrinkled into a raisin. “He’s a boy? I don’t really like boys as much as girls.”
“You like Mattie.”
“That’s different. He’s family.”
My heart thrilled slightly at the word. She had no idea.
“Well, give him a chance, bean,” I told her. “You never know.”
“If you say so.”
We turned the corner back toward the school. The playground was empty but for a few stragglers left with their parents or nannies. But standing smack in the center of the foursquare courts stood Xavier, clad in his customary black suit along with a beautifully tailored wool coat that reached his knees. It occurred to me that he probably had most of his clothes custom made—otherwise, I couldn’t imagine how he fit into them.
“Xavi,” I called.
He turned immediately, clearly jerked out of a daze, but didn’t blink once as we approached, flattening one empty hand against the lapel of his coat while the other clenched a nosegay of pink camellias so hard his knuckles turned white.
He was nervous, I realized. Really nervous.
Somehow, that made him more attractive. For a moment, he reminded me of the budding chef standing on the precipice of launching a dynasty. A healthy dose of fear had been in his eyes then too. But I had also known then that he was the kind of man who could conquer it. And it had only made me want him more.
“Good, you’re here,” he said with relief as we stopped in front of him. “I was starting to feel like a paedo, strange man at a children’s playground all by himself.”
“What’s a paedo?” Sofia piped up.
Xavier’s eyes shot open. “Fuck. I mean, shit. I mean—ah, bollocks.”
I couldn’t help but laugh.
“Those were bad words, Mama, not funny ones,” Sofia said, looking suspiciously at Xavier. “I remember you. You shouted the bad words at my mama at our house too.”
“I—uh—yes,” Xavier agreed awkwardly. “I did. Caught by surprise.”
Sofia was not impressed.
“Everyone makes mistakes, bean,” I reminded her. “Like when you kept taking home those Calico Critters from school, remember?”
Sofia nodded solemnly, looking like she might cry. The sticky fingers phase had been a particularly hard one.