Max meows, which I choose to interpret as an agreement.
Emma's voice carries from the back door. "Food's ready!"
Ethan takes off running. "Food! Food!"
Maya follows him, and I trail behind, watching the way her shoulders have loosened, the way she's moving easier, like maybe she's not carrying quite as much weight.
Inside, Emma's set the table. She's made spaghetti and meatballs, which explains why the whole house smells amazing. Chase is already seated, loading up his plate.
"How was practice?" Emma asks, kissing my cheek as I pass.
"Good. Long, but good."
"I'm guessing Coach is riding the high from your win the other night?"
"Coach is always riding some kind of high." I grab a plate. "How're you feeling?"
"Nauseous. Tired. The usual." She watches Maya help Ethan into his high chair. "But good. Doc says everything looks perfect."
We settle into dinner. Ethan makes a mess with his spaghetti, getting sauce everywhere. Chase tells a story about one of our new teammates getting lost on the way to practice and ending up at the wrong arena. Emma complains about pregnancy brain, making her forget basic words.
Maya sits across from me, quiet but present. The mask is back, but not as thick. She's engaging with the conversation, making small comments, even smiling at Emma's stories.
But I'm watching her too closely now. I can’t help it after reading her journal.
I notice when she rubs her left wrist. A quick circular motion with her right hand, like she's trying to erase something. The motion pulls her sleeve up, and I catch a glimpse of raised skin.
Scars.
My stomach drops.
She catches me staring and quickly pulls her sleeve down, eyes meeting mine for half a second before she looks away.
Fuck.
She knows I saw.
The rest of dinner passes in a blur. I'm going through the motions—eating, responding when spoken to, helping clear the table—but my mind is stuck on that flash of scarred skin.
How many times has she done it? How deep does she cut? Is she doing it every night while we're all asleep?
I know where the arteries are.
Emma takes Ethan upstairs for bath time. Chase heads to the living room to watch game footage on his laptop. Maya starts washing up.
I should go downstairs and give her space, not stand here in the kitchen watching her like a creep.
Instead, I grab a dish towel and start drying the pots she's washing.
We work in silence. She washes, I dry. Old rhythm from when we used to do this at my mom's house in Calgary. Maya would cook these elaborate meals, and I'd help with cleanup, both of us talking about nothing and everything.
Now the silence is deafening.
She hands me the last pot. Our fingers brush, and she jerks her hand back.
"Maya—"
"Don't." Her voice is quiet but firm. "Whatever you're about to say, don't."
