Page 16 of The Kiss Principle

I got behind the wheel. “We’re, uh, still on, right? The job, I mean.”

“We’re still straightening everything out. A couple of guys on the senior leadership team are dragging their heels.” Maybeshe saw the worry on my face because she added, “It’s going to happen, Fer. I might need you to schmooze a little, help them realize you’re perfect for this. Everybody will be here in a few weeks for some meetings, and I want you to get some face time.”

“I can do that.”

“I know you can. Make sure you clean the shit off your nose.”

I opened my mouth to—well,fuck youwasn’t technically a way of saying thanks—but my phone buzzed. I took it out of my pocket. A message from Zé. It was a picture of Isabela propped against the sofa in one of the clearance onesies I’d picked up—one of the hot dog ones. The text said,Igz misses you.

Igz, I thought, staring at that tiny, old man face and the little tuft of black hair.

Then I texted,That is the stupidest nickname I’ve ever heard.

Another picture came through in response: a photo of Zé holding Igz—God, it sounded absolutely awful, but now it was stuck in my head. He’d used some kind of filter, and they both had big, bushy black mustaches.

When I looked up, Lou was watching me, and I realized I was smiling.

“What?” I asked.

In a thoughtful voice, she said, “Have I ever told you that you’re an idiot?”

7

“Dinner is on the table,” Zé said as he grabbed his keys. “And Igz had a bottle right before you got home.”

The last part, I probably could have figured out on my own. Igz—Isabela—had a dreamy look on her face that told me she was deep in a milk coma. She lay against my chest, breathing softly and slowly. She fit there. Everything, it seemed was starting to fit. Zé, in his Quiksilver tee (so old that the collar was frayed and there was a hole under one arm) and his board shorts and the same cracking Hurley slides, fit. What had seemed like pure chaos not so long ago was now routine.

Over the last couple weeks, everything had started to come together. Zé’s background check had come back clear, like he’d promised. He’d started watching the baby full time, and true to his word, he arrived on time every morning, and from what I could tell, was doing a great job. Igz—Isabela—was happy (and obsessed with him), the house was cleaner than it had been in a long time, and more often than not, he made something for dinner before he left. He didn’t have to do that; I’d told him that more than once. But he nodded, agreed, and then did it anyway. We’d even made it through our first doctor’s appointment together (Zé had gone along for moral support), and Igz (God damn it: Isabela) had come through with flying colors.

Along the way, I’d started to learn more about the guy who was currently the second-most-important person in my orbit. Zé had grown up in Brazil until he was thirteen. On the coast, he said. A town called Saquarema, near Rio. Then he’d come to the States with his family. He’d done some school, but nothinghad grabbed him, and he’d stopped taking classes instead of continuing to pour money down the drain. He was twenty-five, and every day he had on a variation of the same outfit, and his hair always had that effortlessly windswept look that made me want to choke somebody. He was thinner than he should have been, and when he thought I wasn’t looking, he took his weight off his injured knee. He wasn’t a fanatic about sports, but he’d watch the Dodgers with me. He did yoga. He read a lot on his phone, he said, when I asked him what he did during the day. Read what, I asked. Whatever I want. He had a way of saying things like that, things that could have sounded petulant or defensive or rude, so that they seemed authentic, sincere, unselfconscious. Whatever I want. Wouldn’t that be nice? He was a giant goof (exhibit A: the dance he choreographed for him and Igz; when he sent me the video during a work meeting, I’d started laughing and had to excuse myself). He did yoga, did I mention that? And he offered to teach me, like I could so much as touch my fucking toes. Once, I’d come into the kitchen in the morning when he’d been feeding Igz. The way he was holding her had rucked up his shirt to expose the small of his back, and the fabric was tight over his shoulder blades.

Zé shifted his weight, stretching his leg and knee. “Anything else before I take off?”

I shook my head, adjusting Igz (well, fuck it, I give up) against my shoulder. She’d be in her milk coma for a while, and I’d eat whatever Zé had left me (in front of the TV, obviously), and then we’d go to bed. Mom had gone straight from Vegas to—I wanted to say Aspen, but who the hell knew anymore?—and in spite of a lot of phone calls, I’d been unable to track Chuy down. I’d have the house all to myself. Again.

Before I knew it, the words were slipping out my mouth: “Do you want to stay and eat?”

Zé grinned and shook his head. The textured mess of hair fell in his eyes, and he brushed it away. “Already ate, thanks. I know you like some time to yourself.”

Igz made a few discontented noises, so I shifted her higher on my shoulder and rubbed her back. “You know that, huh?”

“Kind of figured it out that time you told your brother to stop crawling up your ass for five minutes while you ate dinner.”

“Jesus Christ, you weren’t supposed to hear that.”

And that was the truth; since Zé had started working for me, I’d been making a concerted effort not to spook him with what Augustus calledyour particularly heinous brand of verbal diarrhea. I was polite. I kept the language moderately clean. I even smiled. Sometimes.

“It’s not that big of a house.”

But he was smiling, and I laughed in spite of myself. He shifted his weight again and put his hand on the door handle.

“Hot date tonight?”

A little furrow appeared between Zé’s eyebrows.

“You’re in a hurry,” I said.

“Oh. No, no dates. A—a meeting.”

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