Heart Breaths by KK Hendin Page A

shopping. A warm grandpa-type cardigan and a pair of shorts I had bought from a thrift store in Harlem. Paint-splattered Converse that I would never be able to throw out.
    It wasn’t a date, I told myself as I debated over changing my outfit. It was two friends hanging out. Platonically. With no need to impress the other one.
    At all.
    Reapplying my eyeliner, which didn’t count as makeup, I looked through the small box of jewelry I had brought with me, in search for something to fancy up my outfit. The jewelry was only because it was evening. It had nothing whatsoever to do with any friends.
    Reaching in, I pulled out a handful of colorful bangles, and an intricately carved ring. Putting on the jewelry, I looked down at my hands. They looked more like the hands I used to have.
    Picking up my oversized wristlet, another memento from the days before I was disowned, I took one last look at myself in the mirror. Calm down, I scolded myself. Turning, I left the apartment, headed toward a platonic night with a friend.
    A friend, I repeated to myself as I knocked on his door, unsure if it could be heard over the sounds of music.
    The door opened, and there stood Gabe, looking fairly edible in his T-shirt and a pair of shorts. Not changing had been an excellent idea. “Hey,” he greeted me. “Come on in. We were just getting ready for dinner.”
    The table was covered in papers, with Gabe’s briefcase leaning against a table leg. “Maddie!” Noie called as she ran toward me. “You came!”
    Picking her up, I swung her around, watching her giggle happily. “I did come,” I said, dropping a kiss on her cheek. “Let me see your nails, baby girl.”
    Reaching her hand out, she showed them to me, grinning. “Still pink,” she said. “Look, Daddy!”
    “They still are pink,” he agreed, tugging at a curl that escaped her ponytail.
    “It’s a constant checking to make sure they’re all still pink,” he explained as we headed toward the kitchen. “God knows what I’m going to do when one of them chips.”
    “Go back to the salon and ask Jessica to fix it,” I said as I watched him pull vegetables out of the crisper.
    “What can I help you with?” I asked, looking around the kitchen.
    He shot me a look. “You’re a guest,” he protested. “Sit, sit.”
    I glared at him. “No, I’m your friend,” I reminded him. “Friends help friends make dinner.”
    “Okay.” He looked at me. “You know how to make salad?”
    “Did you really just ask me that?” I asked, laughing.
    “Sorry, usually dinner guests don’t know how to make salad,” he said, smiling sheepishly.
    Which meant that he either didn’t have that many girls over, or the girls here didn’t know how to cook. Option A definitely made me feel better. Taking out a cutting board and a knife, he set them on the counter for me. “Let me just check the pastelitos,” he said, walking toward the oven.
    “Wait, you made pastelitos?” I asked, washing off the vegetables and setting them on the cutting board.
    “They don’t just appear cooked,” he said, opening the oven to peer in.
    “Well, I just figured your mom made them or something.” Clapping my hand over my mouth, I stared at him. “Was that really mean to say?”
    His laughter bounced off the walls. “Nah,” he said. “It’s understandable.”
    “Daddy, supper!” Noie called, running into the kitchen.
    “Soon, Noie,” he said, reaching down and kissing the top of her head. He was so good with her. It was so natural.

    I looked around the table, which had mysteriously been cleared while I was cutting up the salad vegetables.
    There were three plates—Gabe’s, mine, and a little plate for Noie.
    It looked… domestic.
    Platonic, I scolded myself as I took a bite of a pastelito.
    “Gabe, you made this?” I asked, astonished. “God, I haven’t had meat pastelitos this good in years. Maybe ever. To be honest, I wasn’t expecting this when you mentioned dinner.”
    He laughed.