Free What We Hold In Our Hands by Kim Aubrey Page B

thing down,” he yelled.
    Bridget reached for the remote.
    â€œWhat have you done about dinner?” He removed his glasses, rubbing his eyes.
    â€œIt’s fish sticks and French fries,” Bridget said without looking at him. “Yours is in the oven. Braden and I have already eaten.”
    â€œWhat happened to the salmon I brought home yesterday?”
    â€œI’ll make it tomorrow.”
    â€œIt won’t be fresh tomorrow. That fish cost me twenty bucks.”
    â€œD’you want me to cook it now?” She stood up, hands on hips.
    â€œYou can do it in the microwave with teriyaki sauce. It’ll take five minutes.”
    â€œSo why don’t you make it yourself?”
    â€œWhy don’t I do everything myself? Because I pay you to help me do the things I don’t have the time or energy for.”
    â€œWell, I want a raise.” She glared at him, challenging him like a teenage girl standing up to her father. With her clear, blue-grey eyes, pink and white skin, and the freckles scattered across her nose, she could have been Braden’s sister. “If you want me to do all this fancy cooking, I want a raise.”
    â€œWe’ll talk about it later,” he said, suddenly exhausted. “Just cook the salmon and make a salad while I change.”
    Bridget stomped into the kitchen.
    Braden continued watching television. André wondered how many times his son had had to do this very thing—enter that other reality in order to tune out his parents’ fighting. He wished he could crawl in there with him. Often he too sought refuge in television, the Internet, or one of the other distractions life offered with such apparent generosity—work, drink, anger. Painting was different. He’d followed it like any other escape route away from himself, from the memory of Liz saying that all he was to her was a big mistake, but every week it led him right back to that cracked place inside.
    When André came downstairs, Bridget was fixing a salad. “Since I’m making salad for you, I might as well make some for myself. I need to eat more healthy. You’ve got so much junk food around here.”
    â€œYou don’t have to eat the junk food. The chips and cookies are treats for Braden, not for you to stuff your face all day.”
    She slit her eyes at him.
    â€œYou should be more respectful. If I was this rude to my boss, she’d fire me in a second.”
    â€œSo why don’t you fire me?” She tilted her head, and a hint of a smile crossed her face, as if she guessed why, as if she wasn’t really angry.
    â€œIf you don’t smarten up…” He couldn’t finish his sentence. He didn’t want to fire Bridget. He wanted to kiss her.
    â€œI do my job,” she said. “Braden likes me. I take good care of him. I don’t see why I have to uphold your bourgeois standards and fancy foods.”
    â€œBecause that’s what I pay you to do.” His skin tingled with something like happiness. “I pay you to uphold my bourgeois standards, and take care of my bourgeois child.” Arguing with Bridget felt fun and bracing like a game, not like fights with Liz, which had left him feeling damaged and desolate. “And I pay you to help me create a comfortable, nurturing environment for him so that his mother doesn’t have a leg to stand on if she tries to get custody.”
    â€œWill she try?” Bridget looked down at the rings of red pepper she’d just sliced on the cutting board, her splendid anger dissolved into sympathy.
    He shouldn’t have mentioned Liz, or even thought about her. “She doesn’t seem to know what she wants.”
    â€œShe hardly ever comes to see him.” Bridget dumped the pepper rings into the salad. “It looks like you’re safe.”
    â€œIt’s not safety I want.”
    The next day, he came home to a clean house and a pot of homemade