“You’re not angry with me?” I ask. “For letting her chop off all her hair?”

“No.” He lights the burners on the stove, a doughnut held between his lips. “She’s happy. If she’s happy, I’m happy.”

“Okay,” I say.

“Okay,” he says. “Breakfast for dinner?”

Twice a day I make her smoothies filled with promises. Websites sell me on information: super fruits will brighten your skin; kale will make your hair grow. Flaxseed and Omega-3 will take away your blues. Drinking my magical smoothies is the only thing she does with enthusiasm, sucking the very last drops from her straw, and then almost immediately reaching a hand up to feel her hair. She always looks crestfallen for a minute when she realizes she’s had it chopped off, then she gets that determined look on her face. Annie and I watch it all with optimism.

“She’ll get back to normal soon,” I tell Annie on our afternoon walk. “Then you’ll get to meet your real mom.” Annie gurgles and chews on her foot, her troll hair blowing gently in the wind. I feel guilty for telling Annie that the Della she knows isn’t her real mom. Maybe this is just who Della is now, and that is okay. She’ll love her mom the same no matter what. On our next walk, I lecture Annie about accepting people for who they are, and not trying to make them something you want them to be. Annie cries all the way home, and I tell her not to be selfish.

The only time Della doesn’t look sad is when Kit is home. If I were to be honest, it’s probably the only time I don’t feel sad. Square-shouldered, full of smiles, he comes in carrying flowers, or diapers, or takeout, and the relief is drawn across our faces. When he walks in the door, he kicks off his shoes and bellows, ‘Lucy I’m home!’ in a truly horrible Cuban accent. When Annie hears his voice, her arms and legs start pumping frantically until he comes to pick her up, after which she’s not at all interested in the rest of us. It all makes me tearful—the emotion—the fact that I always feel like I’m intruding on their moments. Also, I’m jealous, because I will never own these moments. Not with Kit and Annie anyway. They’re not mine. I hate the dream that made me think they would be. I’m lost in all of these ugly thoughts until Kit puts on his records. When the music is loud, and his little family—plus one—is greeted, he goes into the kitchen to make dinner, holding Annie in one arm, and stirring with the other. Tonight, I try not to watch him sing to her as he sprinkles something green into a pot and replaces the lid. She’s so small in his arms, so peaceful. I lust for Della’s life.

“Sometimes, when you look at Annie, you look really stressed out,” I tell Kit as we wash the dinner dishes. His eyes are focused on the water, but he grins. I’m not sure why we wash the dishes this way when there’s a dishwasher. Maybe it’s because it gives us a little more time in the kitchen.

“You’re too observant for your own good, you know that?”

“What are you thinking when you look at her like that?”

He hands me a plate without looking at me.

“I don’t know. I worry a lot about how I’m going to protect her.”

“From what? Guys like you?”

He glances at me. “Well, yeah. I know what guys think. I’m researching all-girl schools.”

I cackle as I put the dish in the cabinet. “If you raise her right she won’t be easily wooed,” I tell him.

“Are you easily wooed?” He pulls out the plug and turns to look at me, leaning against the sink.

I shrug. “ I guess not. I’ve only really had one boyfriend, and it took me years to trust him enough to date him.”

“So, you don’t give your heart away easily?”

“If at all.” I avoid his eyes. I’m not sure where he’s going with this, and talking about myself feels like sitting in the gyno’s chair.

“Are you saying you weren’t in love with Neil?”

I lean on the counter opposite him and dry my hands on a dishtowel. It should be an easy question to answer, especially since it’s been turned over in my mind hundreds of times. “I wasn’t as devastated as I should have been. I’ve seen my friends go through breakups, and I didn’t feel that. I was hurt, I was sad, but I didn’t feel like I lost the love of my life. Is that … you know … it’s like…?” My mouth is dry. I grab a glass from the cabinet, but Kit is blocking the sink. He holds out his hand, half-grinning, and I give him the glass. Instead of filling it with water, he reaches for the cabinet and pulls out a bottle of tequila.

“I thought you were a wine guy,” I say. He ignores me, screwing the cap off the bottle and pouring a shot. I can taste it, even though it’s in his mouth. It’s the way he sucks in his cheeks after he swallows.

“He wasn’t the love of your life,” Kit says, pouring another shot and handing me the glass.

“Oh yeah? You knew us for what? Five minutes?”

When Kit is dipping deep into his own mind, he looks you right in the eye. It feels like he’s trying to find himself in your eyes. I’ve seen people squirm under his looks. I take my shot just so I can look away.

“I know you,” he says softly.

I know you; I walked with you once upon a dream…

“What? No. What do you know?” I hold the back of my hand against my mouth to stifle my laughter. Tequila doesn’t work that fast. I’m buzzing on something else.