Page 63 of My Wife
“Show me.”
When I take the spoon from his hands, ours brush well, kind ofsticktogether because we’re both sticky. This time, he doesn’t pull away. My skin melts against his.
We move awkwardly to the sink and he lets me wash my hands first, then I show him how to make the frosting.
I say, “Looks like you have a hockey team bake sale future.”
“I think I’m well past that phase.”
“Oh, right. You’re in the big leagues. But what about when KJ plays?”
Liam’s expression goes blank like I unplugged a computer monitor. I incline my head and lift my eyebrows.
“I never thought of that.”
“You mean you’re not grooming him to fill your skates? I thought all dads wanted their sons to follow in their path of greatness or something.”
“If you haven’t noticed, I’m not most dads.” He leans against the counter. The man is practically a pillar of stone on a good day, but now he’s somehow more still. Strangely quiet.
“You’re a good father.” I’m about to launch into one of my perky pep talks, but the words fall like pebbles into a pond.
He shakes his head and then starts doing the dishes. Over the stream of water, he says to himself, “I don’t know what I’m doing.”
“No one does.”
“Except you. You’re a natural.”
“A natural what?”
“Mom, caretaker. You just innately know what to do.”
A great fissure of laughter erupts out of me. “That’s hilarious.”
The space between his eyebrows crimps. “What’s so funny?”
“I have no idea what I’m doing either.” The reason why shoves against the laughter, but I won’t let myself cry, least of all in front of Liam.
“Then you’re good at faking it. I bet your mom baked you cookies, read to you, and showed you how to do stuff.”
Having come up to temperature, the oven beeps. I slide the Bundt onto the rack, telling myself the burst of heat is what colors my cheeks red and makes my eyes water.
“No, Liam. I didn’t have one of those.” I set the timer and am about to leave, but I don’t trust him to know when the cake is going to be done. Should’ve thought of that before.
After standing there for an awkward moment, Liam says, “Tell me how you became such a good cook and learned how to bake Bundt cake.”
My voice is scratchy when I say, “You haven’t even tried it yet and you didn’t eat your fennel.”
He bites his lip. “I will next time.”
“Maybe KJ will too so he can grow up big and strong like his dad.”
This comment seems to have a similar effect as the one about his son filling his skates. Liam drops onto the sofa and leans back, hammocking his head and crossing his ankle over his knee as if contemplating a deep thought. “I still want to know how you learned to cook.”
I fidget with the tie on my apron. “I thought we didn’t talk about personal things.”
“Are you implying that you want to know something about me?”
“How’d you learn to be such a jerk?”
