He’s been sick all week, and had me worried to death when he couldn’t even eat on the first day, and the next day during Thanksgiving dinner. But yesterday he finally started eating again. That alone had felt like a victory.
“I feel fine,” he signs, lips curving up a little. “But I’m just so hungry I can eat a whole house.”
I smile. “There’s a box full of pastries and coffee waiting for you in the car,” I sign back.
I’m still not fluent in ASL, not yet. However, I’ve learned a great deal from online lessons and from him. Lucas teaches me whenever he can. He also uses it often, even when he speaks — it’s become our little tradition, a rhythm that belongs to us.
His face lights up with that boyish, heart-stopping excitement.
“Large caramel iced coffee with extra caramel syrup?” he signs, eyes gleaming and face lighting up with heart-stopping excitement.
“Yes, krasivy,” I say with a smile, then lean in ready to kiss him, but before I can, Milo comes barreling toward us barking and wagging his tail. He scrambles up between us, tongue out, demanding attention.
“Fine, fine. I’ll give you attention,” Lucas says with a laugh, his voice still raspy from sleep as he rubs the dog’s belly. Milo wriggles with joy, the room echoing with the soft sounds of his happy snorts.
“Will you two stay for dinner?” Kathryn’s voice drifts from the kitchen doorway. “I’m making lasagna.”
“We can’t,” I reply, glancing at Lucas before turning back to her. “We’ll be heading out soon. There’s somewhere I need to take him. Milo will stay with you for the night.”
“Oh, alright,” Kathryn says with a small nod, her eyes darting toward Lucas, who’s now fitting in his hearing aids. “You’re leaving already? What about the pastries you brought? There are so many.”
“They’re for you,” I tell her simply.
“What are you two talking about?” Lucas asks as he adjusts his hearing aids, blinking up at us.
“Oh, nothing serious,” Kathryn says with a nervous laugh. “Just asking if you’d stay for dinner — and what I should do with all the pastries Alex brought since you’re running off already.”
Lucas grins, his expression softening. “You said mine’s in the car, right?”
I nod.
“Then share the pastries with the people at your recovery group, Mom,” He says gently, giving her that kind, patient smile that always gets to me. “You’re going today, right?”
“Shoot, that’s right.” Kathryn chuckles and shakes her head. “It’s Sunday, I almost forgot.”
Kathryn has been attending a small recovery group for months, and it’s been helping her. She says those meetings remind her why she chose to stay sober. Lucas is proud of her for that. I can see it in the way he looks at her, in the soft patience he reserves only for her. I think she tries harder because of him.
After they finish talking about their plans for the week—some shopping trip they’ll do together later—we finally head out.
Once we’re in the car, Lucas takes a long sip of his coffee and lets out a deep, satisfied sigh.
“Just what I needed,” he says, beaming at me.
“I know,” I reply, starting the engine and pulling onto the road.
A second later, he opens the pastry box on his lap and gasps. “Oh my God—there’s one of everything!” His eyes are bright, almost sparkling. “Alex, where did you get this? They look and smell so delicious.”
He doesn’t even wait for me to answer. He picks up a strawberry Danish, studies it like it’s a masterpiece, then takes a huge bite. A soft moan escapes him as he throws his head back against the seat, eyes fluttering shut.
I chuckle, keeping my eyes on the road. I can feel his glare before I even see it.
“Don’t laugh,” he says, muffled around another bite. Then he holds out the Danish to my mouth. “This is really good. Here, try it.”
I lean in for a bite. He’s right, it’s perfect. Sweet, buttery, a little tangy. I nod approvingly, and that earns me one of his satisfied little smiles. He looks down at the box, reading the sticker.
“Agnes Pâtisserie,” he reads aloud, already reaching for a Biscoff cinnamon roll. “Guess I’ve found a new place to spend all my money.”
“It’s owned by one of my family’s former chefs,” I tell him.
