I open a drawer and pull out another knife. “How are you at slicing olives?”
“Funny you ask,” she says, “because I have a gold medal in olive slicing.”
A laugh bursts from my lips.
“All right,” I say. “Here you go, champ.”
Sophia takes her place beside me at the counter and we work together prepping the rest of the food. There’s a natural ease with which we move around the kitchen—it’s like a perfectly synched dance.
“Ava said you paint, Sophia?” I say.
“I do,” she says. “It’s what I majored in.”
“What are your paintings like?”
“They’re abstract. My style is still evolving. Well, I mean, an artist’s style is always evolving. But right now, especially, my work can vary a lot from canvas to canvas.”
“I see.” I’m playing it cool on the outside, but really, I’m in awe of her even more now.
“What do you do for work?” Sophia asks, scooping the sliced olives into a bowl. “I’m sure Ava told me at some point, but I can’t seem to remember now.”
“I’m an art director at an ad agency.”
“Oh. Cool.”
“Tell the truth. Do you view me as the bad guy? An evil promoter of consumerism?”
She laughs. “No. Don’t worry. I’m not like that.”
We carry the bowls of taco fixings out to the dining table. It takes several trips to bring everything out, but Penelope eventually joins in, too, helping out by setting the table.
Then the three of us sit down around the table—and it feels as if it’s an ordinary family dinner.
Between bites of taco, we continue to talk. It’s commonplace conversation, and yet I find every second of it interesting.
Especially when Penelope asks Sophia if she has a boyfriend, and Sophia says, “Nope. I don’t.”
At hearing Sophia’s answer, Penelope nods, then says, matter-of-factly, “My dad’s not dating anyone, either.”
I can tell that Penelope’s not implying anything by it. My sweet girl is simply stating a fact. But Sophia looks embarrassed. Clearly, she doesn’t know what to make of the statement.
Quickly, I say, “Why don’t you tell Sophia what you’re most excited about for the summer, Pen?”
My daughter smiles, then starts to count off her list on her fingers.
* * *
“Hot date last night or something?”
The question comes from Tran, a coworker. It’s the next morning, and I’m in the break room pouring myself a cup of coffee.
I finish pouring my cup and look up at Tran. “What makes you think that?”
“I dunno, man. You’ve just got this...lookon your face.”
“Guess I’m just in a good mood,” I say, shrugging. But I can tell he doesn’t buy it. He knows something’s up. No way in hell am I going to tell him the truth, though.
“Well, whatever the reason, I’m glad,” he says, grabbing a mug from the rack beside the sink. “Because we need all the positivity we can get for the Scott & Sons meeting.”