Page 35 of The Breakup Artists

She looks at her hands folded in her lap and then out the window. With her enthusiasm zapped she looks fragile, like a china plate balancing precariously on the edge of a table. She’s silent for a few seconds, her shoulders falling and her fingers worrying at her skirt. I already regret my tone.

I exhale. “Five kids, huh?” I say, giving her an apologetic look as I pull into our driveway. “Why not get wild and shoot for ten?”

Her smile reappears and for a second, she looks grateful I didn’t make her admit her defeat out loud. “Ten! We could have our own baseball team!”

I laugh, not bothering to point out that we’re the least likely family to have a baseball team ever. I park the car and turn off the engine. “Go ahead in without me. I’m heading over to Tiny’s.”

20

valentine

Bentley’s kitchen table is small and pockmarked, and my rain-soaked legs stick to a vinyl chair while he flips grilled cheese sandwiches at the stove. I run my finger across a table groove that’s smudged with green, like it was drawn in with Magic Marker that couldn’t be removed.

“Where are the twins?” I ask, not really sure what to talk about. Bentley and I haven’t exchanged more than a handful of sentences at any given time since we were twelve.

“New board game. They’ve been playing it all morning,” he says over his shoulder.

I stand, not for any reason other than it gives me something to do. I lean my hip against the counter near the stove. “Do you take care of them a lot?”

“Sometimes,” he says. “Yeah.”

“Where’s your mom?”

“Work,” he replies and breaks eye contact, not offering an explanation.

The conversation lulls and we both stare at the frying pan. It’s weird—after all the effort he put into getting me over here, I thought he’d be the one driving the conversation. Maybe it’s just awkward because we’re in his house? Or the unthinkable... could Bentley actually be nervous?

“Where did you learn to cook?” I ask, trying again at the worst small talk of all time.

Bentley laughs. “If you think grilled cheese is cooking, then I totally know what I’m making you for our next date.”

“Our next date, huh?”

He looks back at his spatula, his cheeks very slightly pink under his tanned skin. Only it’s hard to tell if it’s from standing in front of the hot stove or from embarrassment. “I learned to cook because of the twins. They were weird toddlers. You couldn’t just give them apples and bananas. They only liked super flavorful stuff. Still do. They can scarf down Thai and spicy Mexican with the best of them.”

He plates the grilled cheese and holds one in each hand. In an effort to help, I reach for the one in his left hand, but he offers me the one in his right, and we both apologize.

“Here.” He tries again, and this time I take the correct one.

Before I can say thanks, Trevor and Maisie tear into the kitchen, yelling.

“Whoa. Whoa,” Bentley says.

“Trevor took my game piece andwiped his butt on it,” Maisie yells, giving Trevor a death glare.

“She totally cheated!” Trevor counters.

“Did not!” Maisie exclaims. “I was about to win, when he stole my horse and stuck it down his underwear right in his booty crack!”

“Okay. Got it,” Bentley says. “Game over.”

“What!” they both yell at once.

“Games are for fun. You two are at each other’s throats like piranhas. No fun there. So, game over,” Bentley says in an adult voice I’ve never heard him use, and just like that the steam goes out of their argument and they start promising it’s not a big deal and they’re definitely having fun. He makes them agree they won’t fight and offers them his grilled cheese. They each grab half and disappear back into their bedroom.

“Sorry,” he says.

“Don’t worry about it. I like seeing you with them. You’re surprisingly mature,” I admit.