ME
Glad we agree on the essential things.
I manage to reply, despite my blurred vision. Is this a hangover? Oh God. I think it is.
The last time I had a hangover was seven years ago—after way too many mojitos at Irma’s wedding.
I’m not feeling quite as rough as I did that morning, but still, my mouth is parched and sticky, and I need a Tylenol—or four.
I haul myself to the edge of my bed, sit up, chug some water, then text Aidan.
ME
What has you out of bed so early?
Aidan
Calc midterm monday
ME
Right! Good luck jackhammering the info into that brain of yours. I’m sure you’ll demolish the exam.
Aidan
Ur such a nerd
ME
Takes one to know one.
Aidan
Love you, ma. I’ll call later?
ME
Yup. I’m here. Love you back.
I drop my phone onto my bedside table, feeling quite smug that I’ve raised the sort of son who wakes up early on weekends to study—and can make his own fancy coffee.
I taught him the summer before his sophomore year of high school. My lessons came with an extensive economics calculation, comparing his hourly wage at the ice cream shop to the cost of a latte from the fancy coffeehouse around the corner. He’s a fast learner, and even more of a penny-pincher than me (which is saying something). He quickly mastered the skill and took over our morning coffee routine. Somehow, when he makes my coffee, it always tastes better. Plus, he’s quite the foam artist.
Even though I miss him desperately, I also love imagining Aidan waking up in his dorm and then making his morning cappuccino just the way he likes it. What if it all goes away? What if Griggs Johnson follows through with his threat?
I desperately need a distraction—and some good, strong coffee. I know just where to go.
After throwing on sweatpants and a ratty old cardigan, brushing my teeth, and downing a couple of Tylenol, I head downstairs and out the back door, then cut across my yard and through the gate onto Joel and Peter’s impeccably manicured lawn. They’re my next-door neighbors, and also my landlords. But none of these descriptors captures what they—and Peter’s mom, whom I affectionately call Aunt Edna—mean to me. The three of them are perhaps the most generous people I have ever encountered. Their actions remind me every day that it’s possible to both be immensely privileged and have a good heart. Also, they are all real pieces of work.
Through the casement windows I see Joel and Peter in their usual morning routine. Joel lounges on the sofa in his favorite batik robe, his thick white hair already perfectly combed, reading the Arts section ofThe New York Times. Peter sits in the wing chair beside him wearing L.L.Bean slippers, a white polo shirt, and pressed khakis. He’s fiddling with his tablet.
I tug open the sliding glass door.
“Morning, sleepyhead,” he says in his signature Kentucky accent. “And close the door behind you. No need to heat the great outdoors.”
“Is there coffee made?” I grunt. “I’m out.”
“Good Lord, Holly,” Joel says, lifting his reading glasses to rest on top of his head. “What happened to you last night?”
