Free Aftertaste by Meredith Mileti Page A

Suddenly, Jake reaches around me and puts his hand on my arm. He is standing so close that I can feel his breath on my hair.
    â€œI’m sorry, Mira,” he whispers, his voice so soft and low I think I’ve imagined it. Because he is standing so close to me, I brush against him as I turn around and suddenly we are kissing. It is strange and thrilling to be in his arms. Jake’s hand cradles my head, his fingers entangled in my hair. With his other hand he grabs my arm and pulls me closer to him. His movements are rough, angry even, which I easily mistake for passion, because it’s what I want. I feel the tears on my face, and I’m trembling and crying and gulping for air but all I can do is breathe in Jake, his mouth and tongue. His body is pressed close, his arm encircling my waist. It’s several seconds before I realize that it’s he who is crying, not me. Jake pushes me from him and I stumble, hitting the small of my back against the counter. My legs are weak, and I’m shaking. He puts both arms on the counter and hangs his head. I have never seen him cry before.
    For several seconds I stand there with my back pressed against the counter. Then, I reach for Jake and put my hand consolingly on his arm. He shakes it off, not violently, but firmly, and stalks off in the direction of Chloe’s room.
    I don’t know what he means to do and, terrified, I follow him. The blinds in Chloe’s room are partially drawn, and the murky afternoon light is filtering in, casting violet shadows on the walls, the bed, on Chloe’s face. Jake stands by her crib looking down at her. His back is to me, so I cannot see his face, cannot tell what he is thinking, or if he’s still crying. The opening of the door has disturbed Chloe. It begins as a gurgle, a whimper, followed by a tetchy, disgruntled half cry. Jake doesn’t move, and because Chloe isn’t used to the inactivity of adults whom she has summoned with her cries, she becomes more insistent, kicking her feet, attempting to rid herself of the blanket in which she’s become entangled. And because I don’t know what is best, best for Jake I mean—Chloe can survive a few minutes’ cry—I don’t do anything. I let her cry, hoping she can’t see me standing in the doorway. He reaches into the crib and draws his hand gently across her cheek. She rolls away from him and onto her stomach, bent on escape. I lurch as Jake reaches into the crib to pick her up because I can’t remember him ever picking her up and I’m not sure he knows how.
    She’s heavy and awkward in his arms, and he turns helplessly toward me. When Chloe catches sight of me, her cries become more piercing, and her little body grows rigid with indignation. I take her from him, pulling her close to my chest, and I move closer to Jake, so she can see him. She tugs at my shirt, and I know she wants to nurse. I take her chubby little fingers in my own and kiss them. “She’s hungry and wet, poor thing, that’s all.” My voice is hushed, meant to soothe them both. “Jake, there’s a bottle of juice in the fridge. Why don’t you get it? I’ll change her diaper, and then you can feed her.” Jake leaves the room wordlessly, and I turn on Chloe’s lamp and get her a clean diaper. She’s calmer now, soothed by the low sound of my voice and by my familiar touch. “Daddy’s coming with your juice. Be nice,” I whisper. Don’t scare him. Make him love you. It isn’t until I hear the front door catch, as it only does when you shut it very slowly and quietly, that I realize Chloe and I are alone.

chapter 7
    Before we opened Grappa, Jake and I would often walk down to J.J. Walker Park on our summer evenings off to cheer for whichever Little League teams were playing that night. We’d sit in the bleachers and watch the sweaty little boys spitting, swinging their bats, chalking their