It's written in purple crayon on construction paper that's been folded and unfolded so many times the creases are starting to tear. The letters are careful block capitals that spell out: PLEEZ LET GEMA EAT WITH US.
Below Ivy's signature---complete with a backwards 'N' in her last name that she'll be mortified about in ten years---there's a second signature from her plastic T-Rex, written in approximately the same handwriting but with more enthusiastic exclamation points and what appears to be a drawing of a stegosaurus.
Below that, there's a small orange paw print.
I stare at the paw print. Touch it with one finger. Still slightly damp.
"Ivy," I call out.
She appears in the hallway, still wearing her school clothes, all innocence. Her hair's coming out of its ponytail in about seventeen different directions. "Yes, Daddy?"
"Did you make Clarence sign this?"
"I didn'tmakehim. He wanted to." She crosses her arms, which is never a good sign. "He thinks you should let Gemma eat with us too."
"Clarence is a cat. Cats don't have opinions about dinner guests."
"Clarence does." She says this with absolute certainty, stepping closer to examine her handiwork. "He told me."
"He told you."
"With his eyes." She demonstrates by staring at me with exaggerated intensity, her brown eyes going huge and unblinking. "See? He says you're being silly."
I look at the petition again. The careful printing. The ridiculous co-signers. My daughter's hopeful face, complete with a smudge of what looks like grape jelly on her chin.
I'm going to cave. We both know I'm going to cave.
"Fine," I say, and Ivy squeals loud enough to wake the dead. "But I'm making pasta. And if Clarence has opinions about my cooking, he can keep them to himself."
Ivy launches herself at me, wrapping her arms around my waist. "Thank you thank you thank you! I'll go tell Gemma right now---"
"Okay," I say, because there's no stopping her when she's this excited. "But let her know it's just pasta. Nothing fancy."
"Okay!" She bounces toward the door, then stops and turns back. "Daddy? You should use the nice plates. The ones Grandma gave us."
"It's just pasta, Ivy."
"But Gemma's coming!" She says this like it explains everything. Like having Gemma at our table is worthy of Grandma's good china.
Maybe it is.
Gemma appears at six-thirty, holding a bottle of wine. "Ivy said you were making dinner?" She makes it a question. "I can leave if---"
"Stay." The word comes out too fast. Too eager. I try to recover. "I made enough pasta to feed the entire station. You'd be doing me a favor."
She smiles. That full-wattage sunshine smile that does stupid things to my pulse. "In that case."
She steps inside and the kitchen suddenly feels smaller. She's wearing jeans and a soft grey sweater that falls off one shoulder, her hair still damp from a shower and falling in dark waves past her shoulders. She smells like something clean and citrusy that makes me want to lean closer and figure out exactly what it is.
I don't lean closer.
I turn back to the stove and stir the sauce with more focus than pasta sauce has ever required in human history.
Dinner is chaos.
The good kind. The kind I'd forgotten existed.
Ivy talks non-stop about Dinosaur Day, her hands moving in enthusiastic arcs as she describes the glitter incident and the T-Rex handler duties. Gemma listens to every word, asking questions that make Ivy glow---real questions, not the polite adult kind that kids can tell are fake.
