CHAPTER 1
Our kitchen, like everything else in our house, is white. White Shaker cabinets, quartz countertops, ceramic backsplash, stainless-steel appliances.
“They look striking against the dark wood floors,” my husband said when we toured the house a few years ago.
It still doesn’t seem like my home, though I search for the feeling like a child who’s lost her toy.
“Is it here?” I wonder, as I roll out dough for cinnamon buns on the white marble island, my daughter blessedly asleep in her crib.
“What about there?” I think, planting zinnias in the flower beds beside our stone walkway in a late-afternoon glow that turns my bare shoulders pink.
Sometimes, I catch a glimmer of it when it’s just before dawn and I’m alone in our backyard, holding a steaming cup of coffee, listening to the chirping chorus in the cedar and maple trees, but it usually fizzles out by the time I’ve padded back indoors. One day, it will stick. I’m sure of it.
Affection, like familiarity, requires time.
I hear the screech of the shower’s faucet being turned off, the bathroom fan turned on. Arno getting ready for another day at the office. There’s the familiar buzz of his electric shaver, keeping his facial hair at its most desirable length, between one and three millimeters.
He needs to catch the train today, and the next one leaves at 6:45 a.m., so I work quickly to prepare his lunch, moving between the refrigerator and the island like a ballerina: chin up, back straight as a ruler. I compose a taco bowl of ground beef and lettuce, whole-grain rice, black beans, charred corn, and salsa, everything prepped last night after the baby was put down to sleep.
I scoop the salsa, the cheese, and a dollop of sour cream into separate small Tupperware containers so that they won’t make the rest of the meal wet. A presliced wedge of lime goes on top. It looks like it could have come from Rosita, Arno’s favorite local Mexican restaurant, and I smile with a tinge of satisfaction before carefully placing all the clear containers into his portable cooler.
I catch a glimpse of myself in the window of the microwave: thirty-three years old and I’ve already got dark purplish circles beneath my eyes, wan skin, a faint line creasing my forehead even while at ease.
Am I still beautiful?
I half smile, tuck an errant blond hair behind my ear. It feels drier with each passing year, more strawlike. Frizzy. Who cares? It’s just protein, I remind myself. Vanity is for boring people.
I imagine the confident woman Arno met half a decade ago.
“Morning, sweetie,” Arno says, breaking my reverie.
“Morning,” I reply, leaning in to meet his kiss, a quick peck on the forehead that leaves a slight damp spot between my temples.
“You look nice,” I offer, because he does.
Arno turns back and forth in fake modesty, admiring the pale blue oxford shirt I got him for Christmas. It matches his Paul Newman eyes perfectly.
“Wow, I guess I do,” he says, grinning. “I must have really good taste.”
I wrap my arms around him and hold him close, enjoying the pressure of his taut stomach and strong arms against my body. He squeezes me back, nuzzling his nose into the crook of my neck like a kitten, and I fight the urge to squeal, it tickles so much.
“So tonight will be another late one, huh?” I murmur, trying to sound as though it doesn’t matter to me one way or the other.
Arno sighs, turning away from me to fill his thermos from the Chemex. The nutty smell of coffee envelopes us, and the conversation pauses as we enjoy the scent of a chocolatey Guatemalan roast.
“Yeah, unfortunately,” Arno says in a tone that mocks defeat, to give off the impression that he doesn’t love every aspect of his job, including the late nights.
“We have an IPO bake-off Thursday, and I need to review the pitch.”
I pretend I care what this means, nodding with a semblance of concern.
“Okay, I understand.”
I busy myself with a vase of tulips, which Arno bought for me three days ago. They’re starting to open their cupped heads, creamy yellow and smooth as butter. They don’t look quite real, I think, as I pour a cup of tap water into the vase, nourishing them.
“I know you do,” Arno says behind me. “And that’s just one of the many reasons I love you.”
I ignore his pale attempt at flattery and, to my surprise, Arno doesn’t press it.
“I should say goodbye to Emma,” Arno says, setting his thermos down. “Then I’ll head out.”
Copyright © 2023 by Justine Sullivan
