Chapter 8
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I have no idea what to expect from a Miles-Minnie collaboration.
I’m cautious, because if he is as . . . prolific at dating as I think he is, he’ll weed out the players. Plus, Minnie will
be there to keep him in line. Of that I’m sure.
Yesterday, after another unsuccessful round of dropping off my résumé at area businesses, Miles showed up to tell me he and
Amelia had some good options and that he wanted to discuss them with me.
“We did a lot of vetting, and I think we cleaned out most of the messy ones,” he’d said, like I was supposed to be grateful
and not what I really was.
Terrified.
But then he said, “Your kid seems great.”
And I had to smile because, “She is great.”
“You call her Minnie,” he said—a statement, not a question.
“Yes. That’s her nickname. It’s short for Amelia.”
“How is that—”
“It just is.” I cut him off because I know it’s not the first nickname people think of when they hear her given name. The
truth is, I wanted Minnie to be her given name, but John said no one would ever take her seriously. I suppose calling her
that all these years was my tiny attempt at having some control.
“Right.” He looked confused. “So what do I call her?”
I smiled. I found his uncertainty amusing. “She’ll answer to either.”
“But we’re still strangers, so I should probably stick to Amelia.” There was a hint of a question in the statement.
“Co-conspirators, more like,” I said. “So Minnie would be appropriate too.”
“Right.” He started to walk away.
“Can you just show me these dating options now?” I’d asked. Because yes, fine. I’m curious.
He pulled a face. “Not a chance. We’re going to do this right.”
I still have no idea what he meant by that, but I assume he’s going to make a big production out of it. Probably Minnie’s
influence.
She once made a PowerPoint presentation to try to convince John and I that our family needed a dog.
It was very persuasive, and two weeks later, we got Samson.
I loved that dog.
John did not.
I should’ve seen that as a red flag. I mean, who doesn’t love dogs?
I spent the rest of yesterday filling out more online job applications and baking pecan bars just like my grandma used to
make. The great thing I’ve discovered about being in the city is that there are lots of specific, even imported ingredients
I can find here—like fresh milled flour, Lyle’s Golden Syrup, and the freshest fruits in any season. I’m happy to report that
Chicago is a foodie’s paradise.
Baking gave me some much-needed stress relief and also the reminder that while none of these businesses seemed to want me,
my grandparents always did.
Gram was a constant in my life right up until the time she passed away when Minnie was five. She never wrote her recipes down,
and she rarely measured anything. I’d asked her about it once because I’d grown to like rules and structure, but she’d winked
at me and said, “It’s better when you’ve got some skin in the game.”
John didn’t even go to her funeral with me. Didn’t help pack up the farmhouse for the estate sale we’d had because my grandpa
was also gone by then. He knew how much she meant to me—I’d told him many times—but he claimed he had to work and couldn’t
get away.
I’d agreed to move to Colorado after we got married because it was practical and John needed a job, but I would’ve hesitated if I’d known it would mean I’d only see my grandma a few more times. I still regret that.
I realize this as I turn on my KitchenAid mixer and watch all the ingredients come together. I stand like that for a few
long seconds, processing.
Baking therapy. It’s cheaper than the alternative.
Were there red flags all along that I chose to ignore? After I found out about Misty (blech, even her name in my brain tastes
like plastic), I tried to answer that exact question.
How could I not have known?
“You know what I always say—if she isn’t paying enough attention to know about an affair, she’s probably the reason he cheated
in the first place.”
The memory of the overheard comment in the adjacent bathroom stall smacks me in the face with the same force it did the day
I heard it, once again conjuring a gnawing question—Was the divorce my fault?
John and I had been happy once . . . hadn’t we?
The knock on the door is a welcome distraction that thankfully takes me out of my own head.
I open the door to find Miles standing outside holding three large brown paper bags. I hold in a smile.
“Where’s your robe and your mud mask?” I ask, a callback to the night we met.
He grins. “Speaking of that night—”
“Oh, let’s never speak of it again, please,” I cut him off, half joking.
He chuckles. “That night you said that you hadn’t ever tried Chinese food.”
He remembered that?
He holds up the bags. “I figured then you probably haven’t tried Indian food either.”
I’m not sure how to respond, other than to wonder if he somehow broke into my apartment and read my journal.
Also, I didn’t expect him to be so thoughtful.
“It seemed like trying new foods was maybe something you wanted to keep doing . . .” He shifts, and there’s a flicker of doubt
on his face that almost gives him away. Maybe Miles isn’t the always-confident charmer he pretends to be.
“No, yeah, it is.” I step aside so he can come in.
He laughs. “Spoken like a true Midwesterner. ‘No, yeah’ means ‘yes,’ so I’ll take it.”
He steps past me, but close enough to brush up against me as he enters. Either he doesn’t notice he did it, or doesn’t react,
but the brief touch shoots electricity from my spine to my fingertips. Which is ridiculous. I’m not a teenager, for Pete’s
sake.
He sets the bags down on the counter. “This okay?”
I gather myself and manage a “No, yeah, totally,” and then groan at myself for repeating the same thing I just said. “I’m
kind of on a mission to try a bunch of new things.”
I didn’t mean to admit that, but it’s out there now, and it seems that Miles is intrigued.
“Really?” he asks. “Like what?”
“Um, like”—I shrug, trying to avoid answering—“Indian food.”
His eyes narrow. “Okay, fine. Don’t tell me. But I already know dating is on that list, and that’s why I’m here.” He starts
to unpack the bags on the counter, then looks up.
I’m still standing awkwardly by the door.
There’s a man who isn’t my husband in my apartment. A very good-looking man who has, on more than one occasion, made my insides
swirl.
I suddenly feel strange about this whole scenario.
“What’s wrong?” he asks. “Am I being too pushy? I do that. I tend to act like I’ve known people a lot longer than I have.” He takes a step back from the counter like a chef on Chopped when time’s just been called.
I walk over to the kitchen and stand on the opposite side of the counter from him. “Why are you doing this?”
He looks down at the bags on the counter. “Uh . . . because I’m hungry?”
“Not the food,” I say. “The dating app. Minnie said you guys have been texting back and forth and that you’re taking this
very seriously. Like you’re serious about making sure I go out with decent guys.”
“I told you. The first date after a divorce is a serious thing,” he says with an air of confident experience.
“But it’s not your job to watch out for me.”
He nods. “You’re right. It’s not.”
I move my hands to indicate, So?
He holds my gaze for a three-count, then his eyes go wide. “Can’t a guy do something nice for his friends?”
“It’s just a lot of trouble to go to for someone you don’t really know.”
He shrugs it off. “What can I say—I’m an all-in sort of guy.”
I cock my head and study him. “Judging by your relationship status, we both know that’s not true.”
He looks like he’s about to protest, but then he smiles and doesn’t say anything. He just reaches in and takes out the food,
opening a few foam boxes.
It smells amazing.
He must notice the look on my face, because he says, “Yeah. I know. Just wait till you taste it.” He glances at me. “And just
so you know, you don’t have to know someone well to do something nice for them.”
Well, shoot.
Miles might be one of the good ones.
“Why’d you pick Chicago when you moved?” He opens a drawer, then another one, clearly looking for something. “Silverware?”
I nod toward a third drawer, which he opens, pulling out three large spoons.
“I always wanted to live here,” I admit. “I’ve never really lived on my own.”
“Never?”
I shake my head. “I went from my grandparents’ farmhouse to my college dorm to John’s house in Colorado.”
“His name is John?”
“Yeah, why?”
He inhales a sharp breath. “Oh, just trying to get a picture of the guy.”
“Think Bill Pullman from Independence Day mixed with a used car salesman and you’ll be close.”
He laughs, and I find I like the ease of the conversation.
I shake my head, thinking about things. “It’s a little more intimidating than I expected.”
“It’s a lot,” he says. “I get it.”
And somehow, I think he really does.
“I remember how it felt to start over,” he says. “It felt . . . oddly unfamiliar and familiar at the same time. Like ‘I should
know how to do this’ but also, I had no clue.”
He pops open the last lid. “Maybe that’s part of it. Like, I feel like I might be able to help you acclimate a little easier
having been through it myself.”
It strikes me then that even though we are very different, Miles might really make a decent friend.
Which is why I shake the heaviness away and force myself to lighten the mood. “Okay then, let’s hear it. Who do you and Minnie
think I should go out with? And where is he taking me?”
“We’ll get to that. But first, let’s eat.”
“Oh, they labeled everything,” I say, noticing that Miles has left each labeled lid near the dish, arranging everything neatly
as if we’re at a potluck.
“I asked them to,” he says. “I figured you’d want to know what to order next time, if you like it.”
The thoughtfulness is like a pinprick to my heart. It’s unexpected, and it catches me off guard.
When I don’t respond, he looks up. “What?” He frowns.
“Nothing, it’s just . . . you’re being really nice.”