Always.

Amelie comes back, the distinct sound of the washer filling in the background a taunt aimed at her twin. “Who are you texting?” she asks Elodie.

Who is holding my phone.

I snatch it back to find the text function open to Chloe’s name.

“You started to write a text to her?” I choke out. Sure enough, there are the words Would u like 2

“We have to make sure someone takes care of you in your old age,” Elodie huffs.

“First of all, I’m not exactly old. I’m in my early forties, kid. Second, I would never abbreviate words like you and to.” I’m not sure which offends me more: being called old, or the grammar hack.

“I would never actually text her,” Elodie says with an impish smile. “I just wanted to get you to think about it. You already set up the perfect meet-cute.”

“Meet-cute?”

“You rescued her from her creepy stalker drunk ex, Dad!” Amelie exclaims. Now she’s fishing through my pantry, taking cans of my favorite soup and stuffing them in her backpack. Don’t universities feed their students any more? How much am I paying for room and board so my kids can come home and pilfer?

“That’s, like, you’re like Bruce Wayne.”

“What?” I ask Elodie.

“You know. Nick Grafton by day, superhero by night.”

“Right.” A memory from work hits me. “They call me Focus Man!”

Withering looks radiate from both of them.

“That is so not a sexy superhero name, Dad,” Amelie says, shaking her head sadly.

“That’s the best he can come up with,” Elodie adds, giving Amelie a sigh. “He really needs our help.”

“Do not!” I protest.

“Do too!”

They’re in stereo.

“Text her! Ask her out for a work dinner. Do it. Do something,” Amelie urges.

I am not taking dating advice from my daughters.

I am not.

But I am smart enough to realize they’re on to something.

I type, I think we should have another meeting.

And hit Send to the sound of twin squeals.

Chloe

Jemma gets up from the counter and opens my refrigerator. She refills both our wine glasses. To the brim. And these are balloon glasses.

I raise one eyebrow.

“Saves a trip,” she says. “We’re going to drink it anyway, why get up twice?”

Right. I am comfortable now. Soft grey leggings with tiny ruffles on the hem, and my black cashmere hoodie. I stretch my legs out and admire my pedicure: Over the Taupe, my favorite polish. Goes with everything. Just like the rosé wine.

“You never went back to work after that lunch meeting with Nick?” she asks.

“We just walked around the city all afternoon, talking. About everything. He cancelled his afternoon appointment, said he was in meetings about a new branding initiative for an Anterdec property.”

“You walked all afternoon in four-inch heels?” Jemma asks skeptically.

“We stopped a lot. Benches. Cafés. A wine bar.”

“And talked about the O brand?” She is still skeptical.

“Well, not exactly. We talked about what happened with Joe. And we talked about Nick’s job, and his kids. And his ex-wife. She abandoned them all and went back to France. Can you believe that? But it sounds like she still shows up for the kids. Sometimes. When it suits her.”

“Did you tell him?” I know what she’s really asking.

“Yes, I told him about the baby. A little bit.”

“And?”

“He didn’t say much, just listened. He asked if I had family nearby, or close friends.” I look at Jem and my eyes fill up. “I said yes to friends.”

The front door opens and Henry comes in.

“Damn, it smells good in here,” he announces.

Since nothing is cooking, he either means perfume or the faint scent of alcohol.

His arms are full of brown bags. I get up and help him unload. Take-out sushi and three bottles of wine. Red, white, and prosecco. I love bubbles.

I love Henry.

“Jessica Coffin says I will only eat Happy Meals for the rest of my life,” I inform them.

“That’s ridiculous,” Henry says, handing out soy sauce. “What does she know? There’s Chuck E. Cheese, and pizza, and in about twelve years, you can try a real restaurant if you go at five o’clock.”

I try to stab him with a chopstick but he’s too fast.

I hate Henry.

“So where were you all day yesterday?” he asks me. “Explaining massagasms to the board of directors?”

“Kinda,” Jemma answers for me. “One at a time. Starting with Nick Grafton.”

“The guy who put Joe Blow in a chokehold?” Henry’s confused.

“Don’t call him Joe Blow,” I say automatically.

Henry puts a spicy tuna roll in his mouth and smiles.

Jem and I exchange a look. “See that box over there, honey?” she asks him. “It’s a car seat. Could you finish your sushi and go install it in Chloe’s backseat? Or you could just take your container of sushi with you and go now?”

My text pings.

I think we should have another meeting.

I don’t recognize the number, but this can only be one person. Henry and Jem are staring at me.

“I think it’s Nick,” I whisper.

“He can’t hear you,” Henry whispers back.

Another text bubble appears on the screen.

Does Friday work?

“It’s just a work question,” I say. Why do I feel a little disappointed? Of course it’s just a work question. I report to him now. What else could it be?

Sure, I type back.

Three dots tell me something’s coming soon. I wish I were coming soon.

Great. Pick you up at 7.

Wordlessly, I hand the phone to Jemma. She reads it and whispers, “Oh my god, Chloe! A Friday night dinner? That’s not business!”

“Why are we whispering?” Henry whispers. We ignore him.

Three more dots.

Do you like Mexican?

Nick

“What’s she say, Dad?”

“She says dot dot dot.”

“DAD!” Elodie grabs the phone out of my hands and watches with the intensity of a Pats fan watching Brady shout “Omaha!”