"And then Owen said that velociraptors were the BEST dinosaurs, but I told him that's scientifically inaccurate because T-Rex had a bite force of TWELVE THOUSAND pounds---"
"Twelve thousand?" Gemma's eyebrows go up. "That's incredible."
"Right?!" Ivy bounces in her seat. "And Gemma, did you know that some dinosaurs had FEATHERS?"
I watch them across the table. Gemma leans forward, chin propped on her hand, completely focused on my daughter's explanation of proto-feathers and evolutionary biology. Her eyes crinkle at the corners when Ivy gets particularly animated. She laughs---really laughs---when Ivy demonstrates a velociraptor hunting strategy using her fork and a meatball.
The kitchen sounds right. That's the only way I can describe it. The clatter of forks on plates, Ivy's excited chatter, Gemma's warm responses, the background hum of the dishwasher I started earlier. It sounds like something I thought I'd lost when Vanessa and I signed the divorce papers.
It sounds like home.
Halfway through the meal, Clarence appears.
I didn't invite him. I definitely didn't leave the door open. But there he is, jumping onto the fourth chair and settling in like he's been invited to a formal dinner party. He's only missing his bowtie.
"See?" Ivy points at the cat triumphantly, waving her fork. "Even Clarence wants Gemma to eat with us."
Gemma laughs, reaching over to scratch behind Clarence's ears. The cat leans into her touch, purring loud enough to rattle the windows, and shoots me a look that says:See? This is how you show affection, you emotionally constipated disaster.
I'm taking notes from a cat now. My life has become a sitcom.
After dinner, Gemma starts clearing plates before I can protest.
"You cooked," she says. "I clean. That's the deal."
We end up at the sink together, Ivy having abandoned us for her T-Rex and a nature documentary about the Cretaceous period. The dishwasher's still running from earlier, so we're stuck doing these by hand. Gemma washes. I dry.
She hums while she works---something I don't recognize. Her shoulder brushes mine when she reaches for another plate. The kitchen smells like garlic and tomato sauce and whatever citrus shampoo she uses. Steam rises from the sink, fogging the window above it.
My kitchen is small. She's standing close. Too close. Her hair keeps falling forward and she keeps pushing it back with a soapy hand, leaving bubbles on her cheek that she doesn't notice.
I notice everything.
The freckles on her collarbone where her sweater slips. The way she bites her bottom lip when she's scrubbing a stubborn spot. Her bare feet because she kicked off her shoes by the door---dark blue toenails. The fact that she's humming off-key and doesn't seem to realize it.
"You're staring," she says without looking at me.
"I'm not."
"You definitely are." She grins, handing me a dripping plate. "Something on my face?"
"Bubbles. On your cheek."
"Oh." She wipes at it with the back of her hand, smearing more bubbles across her face. "Better?"
"Worse, actually."
She laughs and the sound does something stupid to my chest.
Our hands brush as she passes me a plate.
It's accidental---she's handing it over, I'm reaching to take it---but the contact stops everything. Her hand in mine, warm and wet from the dishwater. Soap bubbles on her fingers. Thekitchen suddenly too quiet except for the distant sound of David Attenborough narrating the extinction of the dinosaurs.
She doesn't pull away immediately. Neither do I.
We just stand there, the plate between us forgotten, water dripping from her fingers onto mine. I can feel her pulse jumping in her wrist---or maybe that's my pulse. I've lost track of whose heartbeat is whose.
Her eyes meet mine. Pupils blown wide. Lips parted slightly like she's about to say something but forgot what.
