Page 82 of Changing the Playbook
“Grapes instead of raisins. Raisins in chicken salad are a crime against humanity.”
“Finally, someone who gets it,” I say emphatically. “Also raisins in cookies. Just commit to chocolate chip.”
“Thank you!” Mike passes me a water bottle.
Our fingers brush and electricity shoots straight up my arm—not like touching a live wire, but like every nerve ending suddenly remembers how to feel. Jesus. Pull it together, Sophie. It’s beverage distribution, not a declaration of everlasting?—
His knee presses against my thigh as he reaches for napkins. The warmth of him seeps through denim, and I have to physically stop myself from leaning into it. From cataloging the exact pressure, the way his leg muscle flexes slightly when he shifts.
“Sophie makes really good grilled cheese,” Hazel announces. “But only grilled cheese. She burned spaghetti once.”
“You cannot burn spaghetti,” I protest. “The smoke alarm was defective, and nobody else?—”
“What about the pancake fire?”
I throw a grape at her. “Are you done with the character assassination?”
“I’m just saying Mike should know these things before you have babies.”
Water. Lungs. Not compatible. Mike thumps my back while I wheeze, my face approximately the temperature of the sun’s core. Because while today started as a test run—could Mike Altman fit into the chaos of my actual life?—I wasn’t prepared for Hazel’s matrimonial projections.
“Hazel,” I gasp, “we talked about thinking before speaking.”
“But Maya said this is a date. That means babies eventually, right?”
Mike’s hand stills against my spine. “Maya said that?”
“Maya says many things. Wine is usually involved.”
“But you do stare at each other. And touch when you don’t need to. Like now.”
We spring apart, which probably proves her point. Mike becomes deeply interested in cloud formations while I rearrange items that don’t need rearranging.
“So about that dessert,” I try.
“Smooth,” Mike murmurs, fighting a smile.
“I’m exceptionally smooth. Like chunky peanut butter.”
“The chunkiest.”
We find our rhythm again after that. Mike regales us with practice stories, using his whole body in the telling—arms wheeling, face morphing between characters. I try not to catalog the exact way his eyes crinkle, the way enthusiasm transforms his entire face.
“Boys are weird,” Hazel concludes.
“The weirdest,” I agree.
My phone buzzes: Mom. My stomach does its automatic clench-and-drop, but the message is harmless:
Having a lovely day! Can you keep Hazel a bit longer?
Relief washes through me. Not at the extended babysitting, but at the image of my parents actually enjoying life instead of managing symptoms and appointments. I punch out a quick reply that, yes, we can keep Hazel for longer, and no, they shouldn’t hurry back.
“Good news?” Mike asks.
I realize I’m smiling at my phone. “My parents are happy.”
“That’s great. Your mom must be feeling well?”
