“There are ten pages of breakfast, and you’re ordering lunch?”
“I like hot turkey sandwiches. And I never make them at home.”
“I keep expecting one of my sisters to confront me with it...” Cary said, frowning down at the menu again. “Because daughters are legally closer than a grandson when it comes to making decisions about the house and long-term care. And my sisters know the truth—they were all teenagers when I was born. I’m sure Jackie wouldloveto put me in my place... but then she’d have to admit to me, directly, what we are to each other.”
“You’ve never talked to her about it, either?”
He looked up. “Again, why would I? She’s a terrible sister; I don’tneed her to be my mother.” He set down his menu. “I’m getting potato casserole with chicken and ranch dressing.”
Shiloh laughed out a breath. “Aw, Cary, I’m sorry—it’s all so messed up.”
“No new tale to tell,” he said.
“You know...” she said. “We grew up blocks away from each other, and neither of us know our dads... We could be siblings.”
Cary laughed through his nose. “Lois and Gloria would never bring home the same guy.”
Shiloh started laughing, for real. “Lois isn’t your biological mother, dummy!”
Cary broke down, too, rubbing his forehead. “Oh god, you’re right. I can’t keep it straight.”
Shiloh kicked him under the table.
He kicked her back. “I’m pretty sure Angel and I have the same dad,” he said, more seriously. “We look alike, but we don’t look anything like Jackie.”
“Have you methim? Angel’s dad?”
“Oh yeah. I’ve met him. And no thank you.”
The waitress came to take their orders. Shiloh asked her half a dozen questions about other things, but still ended up ordering the turkey sandwich.
When the waitress was gone, Shiloh kicked Cary again. “They can’t be all bad,” she said.
“Who?”
“Your genetic contributors.”
“I like that framing—but you’re wrong.”
“How could they be all bad, when you’re so good?”
For all the time Shiloh had spent with Cary over the last few months, none of the circumstances had been normal. (Late nights, emergency phone calls.)
And eventhisdinner wasn’t normal—Cary was deeply concerned about his mother. He wore it on every breath.
But it was somewhat normal. Sitting across from each other in a brightly lit family restaurant. It wasn’t the sort of place you’d go on a date—unless you’d been dating for a long time.
Shiloh got to really look at him. She got to watch him while he talked and ate. Cary ate the same way he always had, and Shiloh couldn’t even explain what that meant. Was it his posture? The way he frowned to show he was listening when his mouth was full?
Their conversation kept coming back to his mom, and what might happen next, and what he had to do while he was here.
Shiloh had known Cary for years before he’d opened up to her about his family, and he’d never been especially descriptive about his home life. He never told her stories. (Cary must havestories.) He had a very Walter Cronkitey way of discussing it all.
It was a relief that he was picking up with Shiloh right where they’d left off. As if she was still on the inside. Still a confidante.
They finished their meals, and Shiloh ordered tea. Cary got cheesecake. She leaned back in the booth and rested her feet on the seat next to him.
“I’m talking a lot,” he said.
