Page 24 of Your Hand in Mine

Poking my head in, I ask, “Libs, you want to help me with a snack? We can have Skylar’s carrot muffins.”

When Skylar unfolds her legs from underneath her and stands, Olivia follows. “Muffins!” she squeals as she grabs onto Skylar’s hand.

It’s a little embarrassing, the level of excitement Olivia is displaying. She’s not just holding Skylar’s hand, she’s clutching it like she never wants to let go. But Skylar takes it in stride, going downstairs with her hand in hand, telling Olivia that if she likes the muffins then they can make them together someday.

“Do you want coffee?”

“I’m a tea drinker, but thanks anyway. Water is good for now.”

“I want water, too.”

I raise my eyebrows at this but don’t question Olivia. I’ve been trying to reverse the bad habit I started when I swapped her baby bottle out for juice boxes a long time ago, and I haven’t had much success.

“Good, you have a toaster oven. These taste so much better when they’re warm with a little butter.” Focusing on me, Skylar asks, “Does Libby have any allergies?”

“No. Ah, none that I know of anyway.”

“Good. I was just thinking that back home I make this honey butter that can even make bran muffins taste incredible, but then I was thinking that, you know, honey, peanuts…I don’t know if anything is off limits.”

“No. I’m glad you asked but I think she’s good.”

“Olivia,” Skylar’s now crouched down, “you can get the butter out of the fridge and I’ll warm the muffins.” Looking up to me she asks in a way that’s not really a question, “You’re in charge of drinks?”

I nod and I obey.

Both of us do.

I’m at the water cooler, you know, the one that dispenses purified, crystal-clear water that comes from the most pristine mountain spring in Vermont. It sits in a corner and I haven’t had to replace the bottle in ages because my daughter refuses to drink it and I’ve developed a nasty energy drink habit myself.

I’m beating myself up over the bad example I’ve been setting when Skylar’s soft voice interrupts my internal chatter.

“What’s up, hon? Having trouble finding it?”

I turn to see her standing next to Olivia, both of them peering into the refrigerator, but it’s Skylar’s ass that catches my eye.

The girl is beautiful in a way that would punch the air from any straight man’s lungs. The other night at that university fundraiser, I spotted her from across the room. Didn’t recognize her dressed the way she was, looking like one of the faculty, but I’m usually bored out of my mind at those events so I found myself watching her. She was going at the table of hors d’oeuvres like she hadn’t eaten all day, which amused me at the time.

It doesn’t say much about me that I didn’t even recognize her until that simpering jerk Thompson practically dragged her across the room to meet me. Until we were face to face I’d been focusing on her mouth and the one hand she was using to fiddle with a pendant that fell right between the cleavage her low cut dress exposed.

I’m not a caveman but it’s been a long time. So when a beautiful woman catches my eye, I look. I don’t do more than that because my life isn’t suited for meeting people, for dating—for anything that takes more precious time away from my child.

When Skylar turns to me with a tub of something in her hands and a look of pure disgust, I snap out of it and remind myself that I cannot do anything to screw this up.

“You use margarine? I didn’t even think they made this stuff anymore.” She turns back to the refrigerator, studying the contents for a moment. “Hmm…I guess the muffins don’t need butter this time.”

Once the three of us are seated, Skylar turns the tables on me and starts conducting the interview herself. I have to rattle off the name of Olivia’s school, how many days a week and the hours she attends. Skylar nods in approval. When she presses me on Olivia’s routine outside of school, I shrug my shoulders like I just got caught without my homework because in terms of routine, there’s none to speak of. I’m wiped out by the time she asks about Olivia’s favorite foods. My daughter takes over at that point, and I just basically sit there cringing as she rattles off her favorite picks from every drive-thru window in the greater Pittsburgh area.

Skylar is looking to me with wide eyes now, so I feel the need to defend the indefensible. “I don’t have time to cook. And she, uh, refuses a lot of foods.” Looking down to see Olivia picking up bits of shredded carrots and raisins off her plate, I feel especially ridiculous adding, “I wind up throwing good food in the trash when I make the effort.”

She just nods her head, judging me in silence. I feel like telling her to have at it because I’m in full agreement. Lab rats would turn their noses up at some of the stuff I feed Olivia.

“Do you know what my favorite thing to do is?”

My little girl’s eyes light up. “Play dress-up?”

“Oh yeah, Ilovedress-up, but myfavoritething to do is cook. But the worst thing about living in my dorm at school is that I have to cook everything,” she pinches her thumb and forefinger together for emphasis, “in a teeny tiny toaster oven. It’s nothing like this beautiful kitchen.”

As Olivia asks questions about this teeny tiny oven situation, I’m feeling pleased with myself as I see Skylar take in the six-burner Viking range, the Kitchen Aid mixer that’s never been used, the Jura coffee maker, and the other ridiculously expensive appliances Olivia’s mother demanded when we remodeled the kitchen.

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