After I’d left Leo’s I’d driven home, circled the driveway, headed back into town, dropped by the butcher shop, and asked for the biggest, most beautiful cut they had. The Flintstones-sized rib eye was perfect. I scraped my parsley into a bowl and started pulverizing a perfectly innocent clove of garlic.
Innocent, my foot—let’s see what you’re hiding. I pounded and smashed, added a sprinkle of kosher salt, and mashed it all into a beautiful little paste, which I stirred into the parsley, which was glad to no longer be the object of my . . . anger? Was I angry?
Did that parsley just snort at me? I drowned it in olive oil, squeezing a lemon over the entire mixture until it yelled “Uncle!” then whisked it into oblivion.
All to avoid feeling the . . .
Steak’s done! I forked it onto the cutting board, covering it with foil to let it rest while I looked around the kitchen for something else to massacre. Tomatoes. Oh, look at that—tomatoes. Harvested by hand, from plants nurtured in perfectly tilled soil by perfectly bearded hipsters, in the land of organic milk and asshole honey, where everyone was happy and in tune with the earth, and the entire world narrowed down to slow, sustainable, and the concept du jour—local.
Fuck local. I’d fucked local, and look where it got me. Angry/not angry, listening/not listening for a phone call or text, feeling/not feeling overwhelmed, confused, betrayed, and slightly . . . used?
I grabbed the goddamned tomatoes by their stupid vines, tore the door almost from its hinges, and threw them as hard as I could across the backyard, splashing through the tangle of vines to spatter against the Airstream.
“Nice shot.”
Dammit! The last tomato in my hand became gazpacho. I whirled around to find Leo standing next to the house, and I had to resist two simultaneous urges. To mash the tomato into his face. And to then lick it off.
I chose neither, opting for calm and neutral.
“What are you doing here, Leo?” I asked, throwing the dripping tomato into some bushes and stalking back into the house, knowing he’d follow. As I rinsed and dried off my hands, I was surprised at how much they were shaking. So much for neutral.
I could feel his eyes on me as I moved around the kitchen, and I avoided his gaze, tidying up, restacking plates that didn’t need it.
He didn’t answer my question, so I finally looked up at him, raising my eyebrows. His face was cautious, tinged with something a little like . . . hope? I steeled myself.
“I wanted to talk to you,” he finally answered, watching as I uncovered the steak that had been resting.
I picked up a carving knife and began to slice. “So, talk,” I replied, arranging the steak on a plate and drizzling the parsley and lemon mixture over it. No way was I going first here. I wasn’t playing my hand until I saw what else he might have.
He said, “You ran out of there so fast this afternoon I didn’t have a chance to—”
“I’ve been here for weeks, Leo—weeks! And you never once thought to mention you had a daughter?” I jammed a bite of steak into my mouth and chewed it furiously. “Like, hey, Roxie, here’s some of these strawberries you like—my kid loves them too,” or, “Thanks for showing me this swimming hole; I’ll have to bring Polly up here sometime,” or, “Hey, Roxie, before I fuck you senseless, did I mention the fact that I’ve got a secret daughter?”
I cut the steak so hard that half of it went flying to the floor, and the other half streaked across the platter. I blinked up at Leo, who wore an expression that I imagine someone who’s just been slapped might wear.
“You’re kidding me, right?” he asked softly.
I dug into the remaining half of my steak, sawing back and forth with a vengeance. “Not sure what I’d be kidding about here, Leo. You lied to me.”
“I never lied.”
“You want to talk semantics? A lie of omission is still a lie.” I forked up a big bite of steak and shoved it in.
Leo scrubbed his hands down his face, as if he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “Did you really just Bill Clinton me?”