Junie fought bedtime every night, but Shiloh wasn’t having it tonight. “You don’t have to sleep,” she said. “You just have to close your eyes.”
“My eyes are soboring,” Junie said.
“If the inside of your head is boring,” Shiloh said, “only you can fix that.”
Cary got there at eight forty-five. He knocked softly.
Shiloh had taken her hair down. It fell to her waist, still damp. She’d changed into a V-necked, mulberry-colored sweater and nicer jeans. She knew they were just going to talk and be friends, but Cary should know that Shiloh still owned real clothing.
Cary was wearing what he’d been wearing earlier. But his hair looked nicer. He looked like he’d shaved. It hurt Shiloh to notice.
He was holding a bottle of wine. He held it out to her as soon as she opened the door. “I didn’t want to come empty-handed,” he said, “but I don’t actually think I should have any of this.”
Shiloh took the bottle. “I’ll save it.”
“Yeah, enjoy it with your mom. Or, you know, whoever.”
She moved out of the doorway. “Come in, Cary.”
He stepped inside. Shiloh had decidednotto spend the whole evening frantically cleaning; Cary had already seen her house. She’d made Junie clear the toys out of the living room, while Shiloh thoroughly cleaned the bathroom...
And then they’d made a cake.
It was sitting on the coffee table on a milky-green glass pedestal, next to a pot of lemongrass tea.
“That looks incredible,” Cary said.
“Sit down and have some.”
“Did you make this?” He sat on the couch. It was royal-blue corduroy.
Shiloh sat on an easy chair. “The kids and I made it. It’s an excellent way to keep them both occupied. Junie likes to measure, and Gus likes to dump things into bowls.”
Cary frowned at the intact cake. “Did you make cake with your kids and not give them any?”
Shiloh laughed. “There were cupcakes, too.”
He looked a little embarrassed. “Okay, that makes sense.” He reached down and pulled his sweatshirt over his head. He was wearing a red-and-gold plaid button-down shirt underneath.
Shiloh cut him a slice of cake. She had a fancy silver-plated cake server, the kind you’d get as a wedding gift in 1958. Ryan had let her keep all their fussy kitchen stuff and thrift-shop silverware.
Cary picked up his fork. “What kind of cake is this?”
“Hummingbird,” Shiloh said. “I should warn you—it’s got a ton of stuff people don’t like. Pineapple, bananas, pecans, cream cheese icing. I think that’s why nobody makes it anymore.”
“Why’d you make it, then?”
“Because I can.”
“I don’t mind pineapple and bananas—and what else?”
“Pecans.”
“I’m in.” He got himself a bite.
Shiloh poured him a cup of tea and served herself some cake. “We’re so lucky to be able to eat tree nuts,” she said with vigor.
“Do your kids have allergies?”
