I snorted.
She leaned on the door frame. “Hey, I was about to order a pizza. You want to join me? You can bring your dog. And just so you know, I’m not hitting on you either,” she said. “I don’t date. This is purely in the spirit of saying thank you and wanting to hang out with someone old enough to drive.”
I paused a moment, debating her offer. I didn’t feel like being social—even though I knew I probably should. Sitting around feeling sorry for myself wasn’t good for me. I could practically hear Mom’s voice in my head telling me to get out and do something.
I heard Becky’s voice too. It was more annoying but saying the same thing.
“Well?” Vanessa cocked her head.
“Yeah. Sure.” Why not. “But no pizza. It’s famine food. I’ll pick us up something.”
Her eyes got big. “Like what? Like real food? From a restaurant? One that doesn’t do DoorDash?”
“That’s what I’m thinking.”
She put a hand to her chest. “Oh my God. I haven’t had anything exciting to eat in weeks.”
I smiled a little. “Do you like Muffoletto’s?”
“Yes,” she breathed. “Chicken marsala and…and a cannoli. Wait, no. Tiramisu. And spaghetti and meatballs and—”
I chuckled dryly and pulled out my phone. “Here, give me your number. Then just text me what you want. I could be back in forty-five, if that’s okay?”
“It’s so okay. And I’ll pay you back,” she added quickly.
“No, it’s fine. It’ll be my treat. I think maybe you’ve had a worse day than me.” If that was even possible.
She gave me her number and sent me her order. She didn’t ask for the cannoli, but I got it anyway. Then I wandered into their deli and grabbed a few of their prepared meals for her. Chicken piccata, a lasagna, and another chicken marsala.
I stopped, looking at the row of wine.
I liked a nice white with Italian food, but it felt a little too much like a date if I brought wine.
Eh, screw it. We’d both been pretty clear that wasn’t what this was. And I could use the drink. I picked a chardonnay I liked and made it back to her apartment with five minutes to spare.
She pulled open the door and let me inside. She’d thrown on a dark-green belted sweater. Open in the front. And she’d put on a little makeup. She looked nice.
Vanessa was a good-looking woman. She reminded me of that actress—what was her name? Jennifer Lawrence. Irony aside, she had that girl-next-door thing about her.
She held the door while I came in with the bags. “Ta-da! Clean!” she declared, putting a hand out proudly to show me the apartment. “It’s much easier to do when you don’t have to hold a screaming infant.”
The studio was spotless. It didn’t even look like the same space.
“Thank God,” I said, putting the bag down on the small table next to her kitchen. “I was worried we’d have to clear diapers to use the table.”
She laughed.
Grace was sleeping in a little swing next to the couch, rocking back and forth, a green pacifier in her mouth.
I’d left Harry Puppins at my apartment, locked in the bathroom with pee pads. I figured letting him shit all over Vanessa’s place probably wouldn’t be the best way to be a good house guest.
He’d bitten me before I left.
I began pulling out the food. “I got a few extra meals for you. Okay if I put them in the freezer?” I did it without waiting for her reply. “I got you a cannoli too.”
She eyed me suspiciously. “Are you sure you’re not hitting on me?” she asked, crossing her arms. “Because I gotta be honest, I could be into this.” She spied the bottle of wine and gasped, picking it up. “Oh, I love this one! It’s been months since I’ve had a Chateau Montelena chardonnay.”
I arched an eyebrow as I closed the freezer. “You know your wines.”
“I adore wine. Once I had a whole bottle of Château Margaux Margaux on the rooftop of my hotel in Paris.” She grabbed a wine opener from the drawer. “I’ll never forget the hangover the next day, but it was so worth it.”
“Pricey bottle.” About twelve hundred. More if the hotel sold it. She must make decent money.
“You only live once,” she sang. “God, I know I’ve only been doing this baby thing a few weeks, but it feels like a lifetime. You’re not supposed to take newborns out too much because their immune system isn’t strong enough yet, so I feel like a prisoner.” She handed me the bottle opener. “Would you mind?”
Grace had woken up and she watched us now with large blue eyes, like she was following the conversation. A cute baby.
I opened the wine bottle and handed it to Vanessa. “Why did you decide to foster?”
She poured us two glasses. “I kinda didn’t. She’s my sister’s baby. The girl in the hallway from earlier. Annabel.”
She set my wineglass in front of one of the chairs at the table and grabbed some plates from the cabinet. “She’s nineteen. No idea who the father is. Gave the mom thing about a week and then came over, dropped Grace off to run an errand, and never came back.” She paused. “She struggles with some addiction issues.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” I said, taking a seat in one of the chairs.
She set down napkins and silverware. “Thankfully she didn’t use while she was pregnant. She was doing really well. She’d been in recovery for almost two years before this relapse.”
They’d given us butter for the bread, but Vanessa pulled out two plates and poured olive oil on them. Then she drizzled them with balsamic, ground fresh pepper over it, and tore open two Parmesan packets and sprinkled it on top.
I rummaged our to-go containers from the bag and served her marsala onto her plate and set it down in front of her seat. “So who were the other two?”
“My half brother, Brent. And my dad.”
I stopped and looked at her. “That was your dad?”
She shrugged. “He wants to see his granddaughter. I don’t really blame him—but I’m not letting Annabel in here when she’s high. He didn’t mean to bump my lip, by the way. He sorta fell into the door and it hit my mouth. Anyway, I have no idea what I’m doing with this baby. Half the time I think I’m just messing everything up.” She sat down and scooted in her chair.
“Well, you should know that the reason she was crying this morning was because there was a plastic tag fastener stuck to her pajamas. It had nothing to do with you or your lack of parenting skills.”
She stared at me. “Are you freaking serious?”
I opened the lid on my ravioli and served it onto my plate. “I never lie about plastic tag fasteners.”
Vanessa burst into laughter. A sparkling smile lit her face. “Oh my God.” She shook her head. “Poor Grace.”
“I only thought to look because I can’t stand tags on my clothes. I figured that might be it. It was easy to miss.”
“Well, I’m grateful you showed up.” She hovered her fork over her food. “You know, you’re kind of a legend around here.”
I cut a ravioli in half. “Really. Why’s that?”