She smiled in that way that always knocked the breath right out of me. “You already did.”
I wanted to believe that. But the truth was, as I sat there watching her stir a packet of sugar into her coffee with tired fingers, something in me clawed upward. It was an urgency, protectiveness, and longing. A desire to give her and Ava something better. Something safe. Something separate from the pressure cooker she was living in.
I had mentioned the empty half of the duplex last night, but it wasn’t the time. She wanted to do it on her own.
And I get that. I do. But it is there, empty. She and Ava could just move in and . . . and what, we will be this happy little family I’m envisioning?
Yes. That is exactly what I wanted. But part of what I loved about Eleanor was her strength to do it on her own. She wanted to carve her own path, and I would be here cheering her on. All the while still hoping she ended up next door, the perfect new additions to this weird little life I had.
“What’s the situation this morning?” I asked.
She rubbed her forehead with the heel of her hand. “She snuck out.”
I blinked. “Your mom?”
She nodded, letting her spoon clatter against the mug. “I woke up expecting Round Two, but she left early for church. Probably to pray for the blue-haired heathens in their home.”
I made a face. “That’s not funny.”
“It’s a little funny,” she said. Then her expression fell again. “But it’s temporary. She’s going to come to me about this again.”
I leaned forward. “You don’t have to go through that alone.”
“I know,” she murmured. “But I’m still going to have to deal with it.”
I wanted to argue. To tell her she didn’t owe her mother anything. To tell her she could walk out today. Instead, I reached across the table and touched the back of her hand lightly. Just enough to offer. Not enough to push.
She didn’t pull away.
“Whatever you need,” I said quietly. “Just tell me.”
She looked up, and that tired, grateful smile, the one that was becoming dangerously precious to me, appeared again.
“Thank you,” she said. “Really.”
There was a loud crash in Leo’s room, followed by peals of laughter.
“I don’t even want to know,” I said with a small shake of my head. Eleanor huffed a soft laugh.
I stood to get the plates, keeping my hands busy so I wouldn’t do something ridiculous like confess that I wanted her in my life permanently or that seeing her with blue hair had flipped a switch inside me.
“Breakfast is ready,” I said instead.
Which, for now, was enough.
We all sat down at the table, finally, and for a moment, I just took them in. Eleanor smoothed her hair behind her ear, Ava studying the fruit salad like it might reveal hidden truths, Leo bouncing in his seat with enough energy to power the entire city block.
I set the dishes down full of eggs, fruit salad, coffee, and the French toast casserole still warm in its aluminum pan.
Eleanor’s eyebrows lifted. “You made all this?”
I cleared my throat, suddenly self-conscious. “Uh . . . most of it. The casserole is from Bread Zeppelin.”
Her smile widened. “The bakery with the backroom?”
“Yeah.” I rubbed the back of my neck. “Their French toast casserole is better than anything I could make, and I figured with tryouts today, the morning should be . . . easy. Or at least edible.”
“It looks amazing,” she said, and somehow that simple compliment hit harder than any kiss.
