“Shall I make eggs again?” I offer.
“Ooh, yes, please,” she says. “Poached would be great.”
“How ’bout you, Romeo? How’d you want yours?”
“Oh, he doesn’t mind. He’ll just have poached as well.”
Something about the dismissive way she makes the decision for him inflames me. It’s a hot, ancient fury that takes command of my body. It makes me brace and stand firm. I don’t move or speak until Romeo realizes I’m waiting to hear from him.
“I’d like scrambled,” he replies at last.
“Sure,” I say lightly.
Selby opens and closes her mouth in shock or annoyance. I can’t tell which. That enrages me too. The urge to protect Romeo has raised its head. It’s an urge that’s largelylain dormant for years, but now it’s been roused, it’s wide awake. The kind of awake that can’t be undone.
Romeo senses what’s happened. He must because before I turn to the stove to get cooking, he calls Tiger over to him and scratches him between the ears. He leans down and puts his head close to his dog as if he’s speaking to him, but his eyes don’t leave mine.
“Easy, Tiger,” he murmurs.
There’s something inexplicably sweet about it. Something so sweet I’m suddenly overcome by the strangest realization. An understanding. A slow recognition. It’s something I never knew and never even suspected, but perhaps it’s been true the whole time—as much as I always looked out for Romeo and considered it my sworn duty to protect him, he did the same for me.
He smiles when it dawns on me. Not a smile exactly, just a quirk. Just a sideways twist of his mouth that carves two or three gentle lines into his cheek.
And like that, sweet turns into something my stupid heart reads as seductive.
Though I’m shaken, the rest of the morning passes without incident. Romeo works on whatever he’s writing—sorry, I meanmaking noteson—and Selby reorganizes the pantry shelves at a speed that leaves a cloud of dust in her wake. I head into town at eleven and pick upa few groceries. They’re both busy, so I figure I’ll make lunch for all of us. I go back and forth a little on what to make because we’ll have a big meal at the barbeque at Ollie’s tonight. I settle on sandwiches. Fresh sourdough with roast chicken, green onion, mayo, and fine slices of Granny Smith apple.
I find the lap trays under the kitchen counter exactly where Sally kept them and line up a collection of her tiny bowls around each plate. I fill them with salted cashews, roughly chopped parmesan cheese, and sun-ripened figs.
When I hand Romeo his tray, he takes it and pauses, looking down for so long, I know he’s traveling, and not only that, I know where he’s gone. To a different time. A simpler time. A time when nothing big or bad had happened yet.
“You boys go ahead without me,” says Selby. “I want to finish this section before I take a break.”
Romeo and I take our trays out back and sit cross-legged in the dappled shade of the peppercorn tree at the end of the garden.
“D’you remember the first time your mom made the good sandwiches for us? You know, after my mom died?” Romeo asks. The fact he’s initiating conversation and the subject matter surprises me in equal measure.
I smile and swallow the sudden lump that’s formed in my throat. “I remember.”
Romeo was at our house. Everything was still strange and confusing without Sal. The shock of what had happened still rang in my ears, shrill like tinnitus.
We were standing around in the kitchen, waiting for my mom to make us something to eat. Romeo and I were talking to each other about this and that. My mom was taking a lot longer than usual to fix the snack. When we looked over to see what was taking her so long, we saw she was making good sandwiches like Sal always made. She had a ton of ingredients laid out on the counter—smoked meat, seed bread, and ciabatta, and three or four kinds of cheese. She was looking down as she worked, tears streaming down her face. The second I saw them, I burst into tears. I didn’t mean to. I’d been trying so hard to be strong for Romeo, but seeing my mom crying as she assembled one of Sal’s good sandwiches was too much for me. Romeo stood beside me, close so I could put my arm around him, and he started crying too.
None of us said a word as we ate.
“Remember what I said when we finished eating?” Romeo asks, trying not to smile.
I do. I remember it like it was yesterday. When we were done and had scraped our plates and put them in thedishwasher, Romeo said, “Thanks, Carol. That was great. I think the tears added a really interesting flavor.”
I smile, and this time, I swallow easily. Romeo nudges my side and starts laughing like he did then. Soft, helpless ripples of laughter bubble out of him in a steady stream that quickly starts overflowing. I laugh too. It’s so fucking ridiculous, but I can’t help it. It’s always killed me that he said that.
“You ate my mom’s tears and thanked her for them,” I wheeze.
He laughs so much that he starts coughing.
“D’you remember the time your mom hadn’t been shopping, so she got creative with toppings?” he says. I squint, trying to pull up the memory, but I come up empty. “She made a sandwich with peanut butter, tomato, cheddar cheese, mayo, and dill. It was horrific.”
“What?Are you sure? I don’t remember that at all.”
