Page 23 of The Kiss Principle

“It’s not a discussion. This is a new condition of the job.”

“You can’t do that!”

“Can. Did. I’m exclusively looking for a live-in nanny. Manny. God, why does that sound so fucking stupid when I say it? I don’t expect you to take care of Igz in the evenings; your nights and weekends will still be your own. But I need you here because we may occasionally have to flex your hours. And because I have this strange thing where I like knowing that my manny isn’t going to be gutted and tossed in a dumpster by a band of murderous hobos.”

“I’m getting an apartment. I’m waiting for the lease to roll over.”

“What did I tell you about lying to me?”

I didn’t expect the resistance in his face, but maybe I should have. I remembered how much it had cost him to say please, to ask for the job in the first place. How hard it had been to admit that he needed it.

“Say yes, jackass,” I said in a low voice. “It’s a bedroom. A place to sleep. I’m not asking you for anything else.”

“Fine.” Then he rubbed his face, and I thought I saw tears again.

“What do you need from the car?”

“I can—”

“Try getting off that couch. See what happens.”

He let out a wet laugh and wiped his face. The struggle was there again. And then he whispered, “Thank you.”

I pushed some of that windblown hair away from his forehead, and he smiled. It was a nice smile. And then I realizedwhat I’d done. I pulled my hand back and stood, and my voice sounded rough when I said, “And you need a haircut.”

But, of course, that only made him laugh.

8

April turned into May. Mom and Cannon came home, and while I expected some kind of explosion, Mom had, instead, been thrilled. Which, in hindsight, I should have anticipated.

“We have a manny. Oh my God, Courtney is going to be so jealous!”

Meanwhile, Zé had settled in nicely. After that first, kind-of argument about moving into the house, Zé hadn’t shown any kind of discomfort or resistance. I cleaned out Chuy’s room and got him set up in there. He didn’t bring many personal belongings into the house. His clothes, his phone and charger, his toiletries. No pictures of family or friends. No…junk, for lack of a better word. No clutter of trinkets or mementos.

In the mornings, he was up before I was—he did yoga on the deck, then he showered, and then he started the day. The only reason I knew was because one day, Igz had woken up earlier than usual. I’d carried her into the kitchen, and there he’d been: in nothing but a pair of tiny shorts, dawn glowing on the defined muscles of his arms and back and legs as he moved himself through the poses. Sweat glistened on his shoulders. It gathered at the small of his back. A lock of hair clung to his temple in a curl. This early, the day was so quiet, and the sky above the valley was white softening to blue. One of the jacarandas had started to bloom, the purple blossoms barely starting to open, and they trembled in the light breeze. I thought I could feel that breeze. I thought something was trembling inside me too. I’d stood there, watching him as I fed Igz, until he scooted off the mat and started to roll it up. And then I’d realized I was being acreep, and I’d hurried out of the kitchen and pretended to watch TV.

Even though I’d told him—repeatedly—that he didn’t have to take care of Igz until eight and that he was off duty at five, Zé refused to listen. He’d say, “I don’t mind,” and “It’s fine,” and “I’m happy to do it.” One time, I sat him down and asked him if he thought he had to do extra duty because he was staying here now. He burst out laughing and went into the kitchen to make dinner.

When Mom was home, Zé often retreated to his room after dinner. But more often than not, Mom was out with Cannon, or she was seeing Shannon, her life coach, or she was getting drinks with Courtney and Kelli and Sara. Those nights, Zé didn’t go to his room. We ate dinner together—more and more frequently at the kitchen table, instead of in front of the TV. He told me what Igz had done that day. He asked me what I had done. Since I worked from home, sometimes there wasn’t much to tell, but he was smart and curious, and he asked good questions, and he wanted to know about the doctors I visited, and how I pitched a new drug. Every once in a while, I’d realize I was boring him. I’d be in the middle of saying something, and he’d be staring at me, and I could tell he wasn’t hearing a single word coming out of my mouth. So, I’d ask him about his day, or about Igz, and he’d blush and stammer something, and then things would feel normal again.

He was still a giant goof. He gave himself and Igz shaving cream beards one day, and thank God I had muted my Zoom because I almost shat myself laughing. Or one time, he was giggling uncontrollably while I was trying to make a presentation. And then, out of nowhere he shouted, “Oh my God!” When I got to the kitchen, he was still holding a bubble wand, the bubble solution dripping onto the floor as he stared at Igz.

“What?” I asked. “What happened?”

He glanced at me, as though he’d forgotten I was still there. And then a grin bloomed on his face, and he blew a bubble. He looked at me again. Waiting for something.

And then I saw it.

Igz was smiling.

“Holy fucking shit,” I said.

He laughed.

“Holy fucking shit!”

The rest of the day was bubble day.

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