Simran’s face shifts to confusion. “Surely you are not upset with me.”
“Not upset. Disappointed. This is your second strike,” Hiram warns with a tight smile, knowing they have an audience. “Enjoy your day, Mother.”
He steps around her and walks out without looking back.
Fueled by frustration, he walks four blocks, happens upon a grocery store, skims the list long enough to pick out what he needs for dinner, and leaves calmer than he arrived.
That night, he makes pasta with three vegetables the list notes Antaris likes. When he eats two plates without prompting, for the first time in months, Hiram doesn’t feel so lost.
The moving boxes from London and Los Angeles arrive on Monday morning.
While Antaris is at school, Hiram unpacks his son’s old life. He organizes his closet, anchors pictures to the wall, and fills his empty shelves with books. He suspects Antaris would rather decide where his belongings go, a suspicion that’s confirmed when he sees the boy’s face as they open the first box after Antaris gets home from school.
He isn’t prepared for the lessons packed into each box. The first reveals that Antaris likes to paint more than the doodles Peter told him about. The box is filled with art supplies, a small foldable easel, and several wrapped watercolor paintings. Antaris stares at them for so long, Hiram wonders if they’ll finish unpacking at all today. Trees with a winding trail. A gray cat with green eyes. A vase of flowers. Storm clouds over trees. None of them look like they were painted by a child.
“Your mom painted these?” Hiram feels odd for asking.
Antaris’s tension confirms it. Unsure what to say, Hiram watches as his son props each piece against the mirror on his dresser.
“We can get them framed and hang them up, if you’d like.”
Antaris looks over his shoulder, hazel eyes wide and hopeful.
Hiram sees his next mission. “We ... can go buy frames together.”
Antaris looks at the art one last time, then nods. Hiram’s tempted to go now, to capitalize on the momentum, but he doesn’t want to push.
The second box reveals that his son shares Simran’s love of games and puzzles. The building blocks inside are the same kind Hiram had as a child. He stacks them in the empty hall closet while Antaris watches with curious concern.
“You can open the closet whenever you want,” Hiram assures him.
The boy relaxes, and they move on to the third box.
It’s the heaviest, and confirms that his son’s college-professor sense of style is normal. The box is full of clothes he can wear now, and knitted bow ties that Antaris organizes with unusual care. A few casual things Hiram folds and puts away, shirts with grass stains and jeans with paint splatter, but what he finds odd is the abundance of hooded coats, boots, gloves, and scarves. They’re out of season, and all have tags. Why Grace bought winter clothes in March is as unsettling as realizing everything is a size too big—perfect for the upcoming winter.
Antaris is too short to hang his own clothes, so he watches as Hiram does it for him. The last box remains unopened when their pizza arrives. Antaris likes extra cheese. Hiram prefers meat lovers, but it’s a small sacrifice to see his son practically inhale two slices. They finish eating in record time, and Hiram is surprised when Antaris brings his plate and cup to the sink.
“You don’t ha—” Hiram stops when worry etches Antaris’s brow. “You want to help?”
This is how he learns his son knows how to wash dishes, as well as a six-year-old can.
Hiram dries and wipes the counters. When he finishes, Antaris stands in the living room doorway in rain boots, shuffling, note in hand. Hiram doesn’t understand what it means until he gets closer and Antaris hands it to him.
In only a couple of weeks, the itinerary Hiram gave him is now worn. He unfolds it and sees the issue: It’s torn.
“You want me to fix it?”
Antaris nods.
The only tape Hiram has is for moving boxes, but he sits at the coffee table and does what he can while Antaris hovers. Three strips later, the paper is whole again. After handing it back to his son, who leaves in the direction of his room, Hiram’s eyes fall on the table. Before he knows what he’s doing, he’s writing another note to replace the one that’s torn. Just in case.
He’s on his fifth balled-up paper when he notices Antaris again, now in a rain jacket that matches his boots, hood up, despite clear skies. Ready to wander, no doubt. Feeling like he’s been caught doing something wrong, Hiram awkwardly folds the paper and offers it. The same reassurance on fresh paper. “I thought you might want a new one to keep?”
Hiram is prepared to blame himself for trying too hard, but Antaris accepts it with both hands.
Seven
Veda isn’t late for her tutoring session with Antaris, but she will be if she doesn’t leave the greenhouse now.
