Page 33 of Trouble from Abroad
“Those belonged to my ex-wife. I have no desire to touch them.”
Ah. Okay. Well, I’ve got a fix for that. Is it intrusive? Absolutely. Am I going to try it anyway? Same answer applies.
“So you don’t use them?”
“No.” He goes back to chopping onions, now with unnecessary force. The cutting board might need medical attention once he’s done.
“Okay, then. Excuse me for a second.”
I head downstairs, gather the four now-pristine yogamats, come back up, and walk straight past him without a word. Do first, apologize later—one of my favorite mottos. I march outside and chuck them all in the bin.
When I return, he asks, “Did you just?—”
“I did. Is that a problem?” My voice is steadier than I feel.
He stares as if he’s seeing me for the first time. I’m awarded with another one of his real smiles. And this one is all because of me. I take the opening and bump his hip with mine.
“Ahhhh…” I make a whole production of the exhale. “Decluttering. So good for the soul. You should try it sometime.”
He tries to wipe the smile off his face, but it stays put. He looks surprised by me. A little in awe. Maybe even grateful. But mostly, just stunned that I pulled that off, I think.
I wash my hands and ask, “Now, how can I help?”
“You’re here to look after my daughter. Not clean. Not cook.”
Oh, please. He’s a doctor. He’s supposed to be smart. Does he really think he’s going to win this fight?
“Again, Dr. Preston, that’s not how I see it. I’m here to take care of a family. But we can discuss that in more detail once Lily’s asleep. Deal?”
* * *
Later that night, once Lily’s curled up in bed with her new stuffed seahorse, I retreat to my own room with a plan.
I slap a stack of papers on my office desk. Time to put it to good use. It’s soon covered in color-coded Post-its, scribbleson index cards—including a drawing of a muscly stick figure doing Pilates—embossed labels for each topic, and highlighter tabs for each page.
The second I’m satisfied with the strategy I’ve drawn, I try my luck downstairs.
Preston’s in the kitchen rinsing dishes, looking entirely unsuspecting. Poor man. Won’t know what hit him.
“About to finish over there?” I ask, sitting on my favorite stool at the counter. Obviously, it’s the one Lily saved for me earlier.
He looks at me over his shoulder and shuts off the faucet. Even timing is on my side tonight. I’m going to ace this.
“Sure, what do you need?” he asks, eyebrows migrating up and toward each other.
But then he throws the kitchen towel over his shoulder, and I have to resist the instinct to moan a “Yes, Chef.”Focus, Mia! Focus!
“To kickstart your comeback tour,” I say, dead serious. “Preston 2.0: The Revenge of the Doctor Dad Era.” I draw the title in the air like a movie banner, hands arcing in a rainbow.
He doesn’t respond. He just blinks, looking lost. That’s fine. I came prepared for rejection as a first reaction.
“So,” I continue, revealing the first page with my bestShark Tankflourish, “this is your proposed schedule. A holistic, slightly wacky strategy that’s equal parts accountability and TLC.”
He stares me down. “You made me a personalized intervention manual.”
“Don’t flatter yourself. I’ve made these forbillionaires and moguls. You’re neither. But you are a tired single dad who smells of stress and old cardio.”
Preston smirks at my near-offensive honesty.
