I stare at the mountain ridge and drink none of my beer.
Her door opens.
She crosses the porch — barefoot, by the sound of it — and sets a beer on the railing beside me. Doesn't say anything aboutit, doesn't wait for acknowledgment. Just drops into the other chair and leans back.
She doesn't fill the silence or apologize for it. Just sits like staying put is the most natural thing she's done all day.
The guitar from her playlist drifts out through her still-open door. The dog down the block has given up on whatever emergency it invented. The first real stars are out now, sharp and close in the mountain dark.
I pick up the beer she brought me. It's cold. I actually drink some of this one.
"Ivy's going to Disneyland," I say.
"Disneyland." Gemma lets out a low breath. "That's enormous for a six-year-old."
"Ten days."
She doesn't saythat's greatorshe'll have so much funor any of the efficient, optimistic things she's capable of saying. She just nods slowly, like she actually heard me.
The air smells like pine and coming cold. The mountains go dark in increments.
"She's going to talk about it for a year when she gets back," I say.
"At least."
"In the wrong order. With interruptions."
The corner of Gemma's mouth moves. "The best stories are always told in the wrong order."
"Says the woman who told me about the burst pipe in four separate non-chronological installments."
"And you followed every single one of them," she points out.
This is true. I don't dispute it.
We sit with that. The second beer is better than the first. Or maybe I just needed someone to sit beside me before it tasted like anything.
Gemma tips her head back against the chair and closes her eyes. Nothing performative about it — no arrangement for my benefit, no careful posture. She's just here. Her hand rests on the arm of the chair, loose, fingers curled slightly. I look away.
Somewhere between the calibrated coffee timing and the way she sits here tonight and doesn't say a single wrong thing — I already have a word for it. I just kept refusing to use it.
Down the block, the dog starts barking again — apparently the emergency wasn't resolved after all. Gemma opens one eye, glances toward the sound, then closes it again.
Chapter 11
Gemma
Ivy's departure takes the better part of an hour and involves more negotiation than a hostage situation.
The bag is technically a kid's rolling suitcase — purple, covered in glittery T-Rexes, practical — but it cannot close because of a fundamental disagreement between Ivy and physics regarding how many plastic dinosaurs constitute a reasonable travel complement. Current count: more dinosaurs than changes of clothing, with room for zero additional items of either.
"Ivy," Beck says, for what is clearly not the first time. He's holding a folded stack of shirts while she rearranges the interior of the suitcase for the third time.
"I need them," she says, from inside the suitcase.
"You don't need that many dinosaurs."
"What if I need more and I only have these?"
