Chapter 21 #2
She tries them. When she stomps, they flash, and she lights up and lets out the most adorable belly laugh.
“Comfortable?”
“Yes!”
He nods once at her and looks at me for confirmation, which I love, and then tells the associate, “We’ll take them.”
I think we’re done. We are not done. Lenzin moves down the aisle, toward the more understated section. The quieter colors. Suede. Clean lines.
He runs his hand over a row of Adidas Gazelles.
Soft lilac. Pale blue. Cream and a pale pink, all with complementary colors.
He smiles when he sees the bright pink flowers and picks them up.
“We’ll take these ones, and the,” he looks at the blue, and I am sure he’s going to say the blue, but he says, “The others too.”
“Um, what are you thinking?” I ask quietly.
He doesn’t look up. “Rotation is better for structure.”
He says it like he’s talking about training skates.
“Structure, of course.” I roll my eyes slightly.
He glances at Lucy, who is busy making the pair she still has on light up, over and over.
“She’s going to wear them out and outgrow them fast. It’s a lesson on sustainability, and how to care for things you want to last.”
“But we will absolutely not be making her feel bad about doing that.” I point at her, still stomping.
He chuckles, “No, not ever. She’s so fucking adorable, Hildy.” He smiles, “I hope my DNA doesn’t take away your red hair, or the mesmerizing green of your eyes, or lips, or—”
I feel my face heat at not just his words but the way he’s looking at me, here, in public. “Well, I hope at least one has your eyes, your nose, and hair.”
He grips my hip and pulls me into him, kisses my forehead quickly, and looks down at me. “They’re going to be perfect, just like you and that one.” He nods to Lucy and smiles as he steps back.
The sales associate has set the boxes on the bench. “Hey, little miss, how about we try these on now?”
Lucy hops up on the bench and lets the woman go to work.
“Did I ever tell you, I actually enjoy shopping?” He is joking, right? “Not online, I need to feel the products, see that the companies I chose to support are actually getting them from.” Support? “I take consumption very seriously.”
He takes my hand and walks over, then lets it go as he lifts the first pair out of the box.
“These,” he says thoughtfully, glancing at Lucy’s outfit, “will be for your grey knit set. The one with the pleats that move when you walk.”
Lucy looks down at herself, surprised.
“The spinny one?”
“Yes. The spinny one. The pink keeps it playful.”
“And with your soft pink hair clip. Not the glitter one. The matte one.”
I blink when it hits me hard that he notices everything.
He reaches for the pale blue pair next.
“These are for your cream leggings and the oversized blue cardigan. The cardigan you pull over your hands because you think it makes you invisible.”
Lucy grins because it absolutely does not.
“And the ribbed socks,” he adds. “The ones with the tiny scalloped edge.”
The sales associate looks impressed. And me, I am sure I look slightly offended that he’s better at this than I am, but it is true.
He sets those aside and lifts the cream pair.
“These,” he says calmly, “are for your burgundy knit dress. And the dark tights. When you want to look… capable.”
Lucy straightens up instantly and repeats, “Capable.”
“Yes.”
Then he turns the lilac pair in his hands, studying the shade.
“These are for the lavender sweater, with charcoal leggings. Not black. Charcoal is softer.”
The associate nods, like this is a masterclass.
“And the flower ones?” Lucy asks, pointing to the bright pink with embroidery.
He smiles, actually smiles, and slips them onto her other foot.
“Those,” he says quietly, tying the laces with precision, “are for when it is grey and you decide it should not be.”
She beams.
“You rotate them,” he says gently. “We do not wear the same pair two days in a row. They rest. That is how they last.”
Lucy nods solemnly.
“And when you grow out of them, they are cleaned and get new laces, then properly boxed, and one day your little sister opens the box.” Lucy’s eyes go wide. “And what do you tell her?”
“They were mine first,” she whispers.
He nods once. “Yes. And that you took care of them so she could wear them one day too.”
He stands, smooths Lucy’s sweater hem absentmindedly.
“We buy well,” he says calmly. “So we can pass well.” Then, to the associate, “We’ll take all four.”
“Of course.” She smiles.
“Now let’s go find you some snow pants and boots so you can make me some snow angels. But first,” he nods to the right, and they head that way.
He reaches for a box in my size, cream suede, clean and understated.
“Lenzin,” I start.
“You need shoes you can walk in,” he says calmly, handing them to the associate whose hands are already full, yet she manages. “You’ve been wearing boots every day.”
“I have other shoes.”
He gives me a look. “These are better.”
Better for what? Walking beside him? Standing in arenas? Chasing toddlers? Carrying twins? He doesn’t say. He doesn’t have to.
Lucy grabs his hand again. “Can I put cheese in my backpack?”
“Cheese is negotiable,” he replies solemnly.
She laughs.
“You hungry?” I ask her.
“Almost,” she says, glancing to the left.
“I bet you will be after we get those snow clothes.” Lenzin chuckles.
My argument about not buying myself snow clothes, along with so many other things, not being smart or sustainable, since I was about to be as big as a house, was dismissed with a smile and sparkling brown eyes.
And at the checkout, a man recognizes him.
“Hey, big fan.” I tense, not knowing what to expect.
Lenzin shakes his hand briefly. “Appreciate it.”
The man’s eyes flick to Lucy and her sparkly backpack.
“She starts preschool Monday,” Lenzin says evenly, redirecting attention like it’s nothing.
The man smiles at her instead. And moves on.
He doesn’t ask for a photo, doesn’t make a spectacle, which is oddly comforting.
In the garage, he loads everything into the trunk and then scoops Lucy up before pulling her bookbag from one of the shopping bags and asks, “Wanna hold it?”
She squeals, and he chuckles as he opens my door and then steps back and sets her in her seat.
Once he’s in the driver’s side, I look at him, completely at ease, which is nice because I am still twisted up inside at the thought of twins, and how I’m going to manage everything with school, and Lucy.
“Thank you,” I say quietly.
“It’s nothing.”
It isn’t nothing, but I don’t argue, because I struggle in a way he doesn’t, and he knows that.
He pulls back onto Columbus Circle and heads uptown, traffic gliding around us. Fifth Avenue gleams ahead.
“What do you think, do we go to a place that has paper napkins or cloth, Schatz?”
“Cloth napkins.” Lucy smiles.
“Cloth napkins,” he agrees.
He valets at Bergdorf’s, a place I’ve walked by a dozen times and never dared look in the window, afraid it would cost me more than I could afford, more than just money, to just catch a glimpse.
The doorman opens Lucy’s door first, so I have to get out quickly, worried that if he tries to open mine he’ll leave her unattended.
Lenzin is right there and has to step back because I nearly steamroll over him.
“I was going to get that,” he chuckles.
“I was—”
He cups the side of my face. “I know, and that is just another facet that makes you more precious to me than any —”
“Come on, let’s go,” Lucy says, jumping up and down as she looks up at the building.
He smiles and, without looking at her, his brown eyes never leaving mine, he bends down and scoops her up.
The elevator rises, and then suddenly we’re overlooking Central Park. The sun is setting, and it is stunning. Lucy’s little hands are on the glass, eyes wide as she takes it in.
“Watching her, seeing this.” He sighs. “Makes it even more beautiful, yes?”
“Absolutely,” I whisper.
We step into the restaurant, and Lucy is all smiles, “It’s glowing.”
“It is,” I agree as we stay back and Lenzin speaks with the hostess.
We don’t wait even a minute before we’re whisked to a table by the windows, where we can see the skyline as the sun sets further.
He pulls Lucy’s chair out first. Then mine. Sits last.
He unfolds his napkin and places it in his lap before even glancing at the menu.
Lucy presses her hands to the glass. “The sky is pink.”
“It is,” he says softly. “Good choice of evening.”
The server approaches. Lenzin makes eye contact immediately. Calm. Polite. Assured.
“Sparkling water for the table,” he says, then glances at Lucy. “Or would you prefer still tonight?”
“Sparkly,” she smiles, and I can’t help giggle, knowing she hasn’t had sparkling water.
“Sparkling,” he confirms. “Room temperature, please.”
“May we get flat as well, chilled?” I ask.
“Of course, miss.”
He scans the menu briefly, though I can tell he already knows.
“For her,” he says, glancing at Lucy with quiet certainty, “the house-made tagliatelle. Butter and freshly grated parmigiano cheese. Nothing mixed in. We’ll add as we go.”
Lucy grins.
“And the roasted carrots,” he continues. “Simply done. Light salt. No glaze. Cut lengthwise.”
The server nods, adjusting his notes.
He turns slightly toward me, but his question is for the server.
“The salmon,” he says. “Wild?”
“Yes, arrived this morning.”
He gives a single nod. “We’ll have that. Fully cooked, it does not come to the table at less than 145 degrees.”
“Of course, sir.”
“With the lemon butter. And the potatoes.”
I start to say something smaller, lighter, but he has already closed the space for it without being forceful, and honestly, salmon sounds good.
“And the burrata to begin. Pasteurized milk?” He asks, and the waiter nods. “Perfect.”
The server writes quickly.
“And for you, sir?”
“The venison,” he replies. “Medium rare. And the seasonal mushrooms.”
He folds his menu, calm and finished.
“Bread?” Lucy asks.
He smiles faintly. “The sourdough. Warm. Olive oil on the side.”