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I’m offering because I know she’ll decline.

“No, no. I don’t feel right being away from him. You have fun.”

Dad is sitting at the table again, staring at the whiteboard.

“It says Nicole is here today,” he says to the empty space in front of him.

I go to him, put my hands on his shoulders, peek around so he can see my face.

“Boo,” I say. “Here I am.”

He looks surprised, which no longer surprises me.

“When did you get here?” he asks.

I go through the usual question-and-answer routine, then give him a kiss on the cheek.

“I love you, Dad. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Love ya, Nikki.”

I stand before Elijah’s apartment door and take a deep breath. Here I am again. Or here Katrina is again. I knock.

“Hey, you,” he says when he opens the door.

His apartment smells like a restaurant. He is cooking.

I didn’t know this was in his repertoire of skills.

When is the last time Kyle cooked for me?

I cannot remember. He picks up takeout for us on occasion, though I am almost always the one who bears the burden of calling the restaurant or clicking through the online ordering system.

Kyle may have cooked a Valentine’s Day or birthday dinner for me before we were married, back when we lived in our crappy apartment near UCLA.

We used to celebrate Valentine’s Day, something I’ve forgotten until just this moment.

Now, we acknowledge the day only for the girls’ benefit.

I linger in Elijah’s doorway, and he pulls me toward him, his arm around my waist, hand cupping my ass. We kiss, stumble inside, fall onto his couch, me on top of him. He is already hard.

“What are you making me, Chef?” I ask him.

Both his hands are on my ass now, grabbing.

“Curry,” he says between fast breaths. Then: “God, this skirt is hot.”

He does as I want him to do—he pushes it up around my waist. That’s when he discovers that I’m not wearing underwear.

“My god, woman.”

His long fingers reach around to the front of me, caressing before they slip inside. I am wet, ready.

“Is the curry spicy?” I whisper into his ear.

“Not as spicy as you,” he whispers back.

I unbutton his jeans, pull them off, do the same with his boxers. I use my teeth to open the condom wrapper. I put him inside me, and his head falls back, eyes closed as he moans. There is nothing better than this, I think—the power of pleasuring.

I come twice on top of him before he flips me over. I come again as he does. His body collapses on top of mine.

“Jesus,” he says.

“You’re religious?”

He laughs.

“I better not be, because you are sinful,” he says.

You have no idea.

He pushes himself off me, and I sit up. I’m wearing my bra, my skirt still bunched up around my waist.

“Well, I’ve worked up an appetite,” he says. “You?”

I nod. “Seriously, though, is the curry spicy?”

“Just a little,” he says. “I took you for a woman who likes some spice. Was I wrong?”

I do not like spice. I am a boring, basic white woman with a completely unadventurous palate. Katrina, I decide, will be different.

“You are not wrong,” I say.

He stands, still naked. I watch the muscles of his ass contract and release as he walks.

He returns to the couch with a plate in each hand, piled high with rice and an orangey-yellow curry.

I can’t help but stare at his penis, flaccid now but still larger than Kyle’s is when fully erect.

It makes me feel immature to take note of such a thing.

“Thai coconut curry,” he says.

He sits next to me, and we eat, plates in our laps. It is spicier than I’d like, my lips burning almost immediately, but I say, “Mmm,” reminding myself that this is what I want—a life less bland.

“I missed you this week,” he says.

“I missed you too.”

“I was thinking that with all the texting, I still don’t know so many things about you,” he says.

You have no idea, I think again.

“What do you want to know?”

“The usual things. Where you grew up. If you like your parents. Your hobbies. I mean, do you have hobbies? How do I not know this?”

I do not have hobbies. I take care of children all day. I have no idea who I am anymore. That’s why I’m here.

“Well, I grew up in Daly City,” I say, figuring I will try out occasional truths, see how they feel.

“You did? You’re a Bay Area girl?”

“I am.”

“You still have family up here?”

I nod. Suddenly, my throat constricts until it feels like it is the circumference of a drinking straw. I am about to cry.

“Hey,” he says, putting his plate on the coffee table and then placing one hand on my thigh, the other on my shoulder. “Hey, hey, it’s okay.”

The tears just come. There is no stopping them. I am in the grip of a grief that does not give me the courtesy of a fair warning.

“I’m sorry,” I say.

He takes my plate from me, puts it next to his. He uses the pad of his thumb to wipe the tears from under my eyes. He stares at me, his eyes scanning mine, back and forth, trying to decipher the reason for this unexpected display of emotion.

“Don’t apologize.”

I try to imagine Kyle saying these words, Kyle wiping my tears with his thumb, Kyle putting comforting hands on my body, Kyle touching me in a way that considers my feelings instead of his own motivations for attention.

“It’s just that . . .”

He waits, still staring. Has Kyle ever looked into the belly of the beast that is me? Has he ever not looked away?

“My dad is dying.”

I was not expecting to share this, but there it is.

I had hoped the tears would abate with this confession, but they just come harder.

I am sobbing while sitting on the couch of my lover with my skirt bunched up around my waist, my breasts heaving in the uncomfortable cups of this lacy bra.

Elijah pulls me into his naked body, holds me there with a force that is off putting in its unfamiliarity at first, but then soothing.

With him I feel something I didn’t know I wanted to feel with another person—relief.

He rocks me back and forth like I would do with Grace or Liv. He doesn’t say anything, not for several moments, what feels like hours. He is not bothered by my emotion. He is not scared of it. He is welcoming, desiring even.

“I’m here,” he says, finally.

That’s it. Not “It’s going to be okay” or “Don’t cry.” Just “I’m here.”

“Thank you,” I manage.

He doesn’t ask questions, doesn’t inquire about what ails my dad or how much time he has left. I am thankful for this. I do not want to answer these questions.

“Let’s go to bed,” he says.

It’s not even eight o’clock, but I say, “Okay.”

He pulls me up from the couch, and I put my skirt back in its proper position. He lifts me, my weight nothing to him. I wrap my arms around his neck, my legs around his torso. I rest my head in the space between his ear and his shoulder. One of his hands strokes my back.

He lays me down on his bed, pulls my skirt off me.

Just as I’m wondering if he wants sex again, just as I’m starting to feel disappointed by this, he goes to the other room, returns with my overnight bag.

I have brought a nightie with me, another item retrieved from the back of the drawer at home, another item that had a tag still attached.

“Can I get you anything? Water?”

“Please,” I say.

He goes to the kitchen, returns with a tall glass of water. I drink.

“I bet you weren’t expecting this for tonight,” I say, a bit embarrassed by myself. If I’m honest, though, it’s felt good to cry. I do not regret it.

“Tonight has actually surpassed my expectations.”

I raise my eyebrows.

“Like I told you, I wanted to learn more about you. And now I have.”

He gets into bed next to me, still naked.

I turn on my side, pull my knees into my chest. He presses his chest to my back, wraps his arms around the whole of me.

I usually have to make an effort to fall asleep—breathing deeply, counting sheep.

This night requires no effort, though. Within seconds, my eyelids feel heavy.

I am at peace. I am safe. My body can rest.