Dad shuffles back to his recliner in front of the TV. It's already on, some daytime show flickering with canned laughter. He sinks into the chair with a sigh.
I look around the house and my stomach drops. It’s undeniably worse than last time. Dishes piled in the sink, probably growing things. Laundry scattered across every surface. I’m sure there’s a fine coat of dust on everything.
"I'm just going to..." I gesture vaguely at the mess. "Clean up a bit."
Handing the remote to my dad, I flash Silas another apologetic look. "We'll be out of here before you know it."
"Please." Si's gaze hardens. "Just tell me what to do."
“Honestly, just sit.”
Silas gives me a hard look. “Put me to work, sweetheart.”
I give up, looking around. "It'd be nice if you dusted in here. I can start doing the dishes. Then I can try to fix dinner."
"Scout..." Dad grunts, leaning back and scratching his beard. "I don't want you going to any trouble on my account."
"It's no trouble, Dad. Honestly." Except for the fact that I’ve dragged Silas into this mess. I shouldn’t have agreed for him to drive me. It wouldn't be the first trip I’ve made up here in poor driving conditions.
“Can I get some dusting supplies?” Si asks. Because he’s the best guy in the world and he’s rolling with this, even though it’s way outside his role as maybe-boyfriend.
“Right.” I hustle into the kitchen and grab a feather duster, some paper towels, and some Windex for dusting. Silas meets me in the doorway and grabs them.
"Thanks," I whisper. "We'll be out of here in no time. I promise."
He smiles at me, his ash-blond hair falling in soft swoops around his face. Reaching out, he brushes a stray curl back from my face with gentle fingers. He's so tall and broad and just all together hot.
"Don't rush. I'm here as long as you need me."
I almost swoon. This hot guy is here for me? He's smiling at me and helping me clean my dad's house? Enzo certainly never did any of those things the entire time he was my husband. He never set foot in this house.
"Thanks, baby." I give Si a quick kiss, not trusting myself to stop getting all mushy. Crying isn't going to help this house get clean.
With stars in my eyes, I move to the kitchen on autopilot and start washing dishes. Scrubbing counters and sweeping floors is next. The familiar rhythm settles something in me. Knowing how to do this, cleaning and takingcare of somebody else, makes sense when nothing else does.
We work in silence for the next two hours. Kitchen first, then living room. Vacuuming, dusting, throwing out the trash that’s collected around the room.
Silas helps me when he's done dusting and vacuuming. Not a word passes between us, but I can see Silas looking at my dad now and then. The entire time, my dad watches TV. He doesn't say a word or even thank Silas.
It's fine when it's just me my dad is ignoring. But it burns me up inside that Dad would pretend this stranger cleaning his house is normal. I swallow the bitterness like every other complaint I’ve ever had.
But I’m embarrassed by it nonetheless.
By the time I finish, my hands are raw and red. My back aches from bending over. To my relief, though, the house looks better. Almost livable.
Next, I make dinner. There isn't much in the fridge, but I keep the pantry well stocked and the freezer full of veggies. I pull out the ingredients for chicken broccoli fettuccini. It's the kind of simple, hearty meal my mother used to make on a weeknight. Soon, the smell of pasta fills the house. And for one brief moment, it feels like before my mom died. Any moment now, she might walk in from the other room, smiling and asking if I need help.
I stir the fettuccini noodles and wipe my eyes. Mom would always stand right here, humming and making dinner. Smiling, talking to me as I helped, washing the potatoes and dicing the carrots. God, how I miss her right now. If only my mom hadn't gotten sick…
But it’s not the time to get emotional. My dad can’t handle anyone else around him being sad. He has enoughgrief to fill any space he’s in. He doesn’t need to deal with my tears on top of that.
When I turn the pasta out into bowls, I call my dad and Silas. "Dinner's ready."
Dad finally turns off the TV and shuffles in the kitchen, sitting at the small dining table. He sits in the same chair he's occupied for thirty years.
I serve him with shaking hands, waiting for some kind of response. Silas watches me with a carefully neutral expression. God, what kind of pieces is he fitting into place in the puzzle of my life? He accepts a bowl of pasta and sits, his frame dwarfing the small kitchen chair. In his hands, the fork looks ridiculous.
Dad takes a bite and chews slowly, then swallows. Then something in his weathered face softens just slightly.
