"You look tired, dear."
"Full house this weekend." I straightened a napkin that didn't need straightening. "You know how it is."
She didn't push. Just settled into her usual chair by the window and opened her paperback. But I felt her watching me as I moved through the room, arranging and rearranging, adjusting and re-adjusting, keeping my hands busy so they wouldn't shake.
Emma left after breakfast.
I watched from the kitchen window as she emerged onto the porch, overnight bag in hand, sunglasses perched on her perfect blonde hair. Marcus followed close behind, his hand hovering at the small of her back as they walked toward the driveway.
A black car idled by the gate. Her ride back to Denver. Back to whatever life she and Marcus shared in the city. One I wasn’t part of.
They stood by the car longer than necessary.Too long.
Emma said something, and Marcus laughed. Really laughed, head thrown back, that full-body sound I hadn't heard in years. When had he stopped laughing like that with me?
Emma's hand found his arm. Lingered there. Marcus didn't pull away.
I gripped the edge of the sink until my knuckles went white.
Finally, Emma slid into the car. The window rolled down. More words I couldn't hear. Another laugh from Marcus. Then the car pulled away, gravel crunching under expensive tires, and she was gone.
Marcus stood in the driveway watching until the car disappeared around the bend. Then he turned and walked back toward the house. There was something different about the way he moved. Lighter. Easier. Like a weight had been lifted.
He looked happy. Open in a way I hadn’t seen in months. Maybe longer.
The kitchen door swung open.
"Good weekend?" I asked. My voice came out steady. I was almost proud of that.
Marcus nodded, already pulling out his phone. "Productive. Emma's really something."
Something.
I waited for him to elaborate. To explain what kind of something. To look at me, even for a second, and see the question written all over my face.
He didn't. He just scrolled through his emails, thumbs moving across the screen, as if I wasn't even there.
"I'm going to take a shower," he said. "Then we should talk."
He walked past me without waiting for a response. His footsteps faded up the stairs, and I stood alone in my grandmother's kitchen, gripping the edge of the sink, trying to remember how to breathe.
The last guest checked out at noon. Mrs. Patterson lingered, the way she sometimes did, nursing a final cup of tea.
"Are you sure you're alright?" she asked as I cleared her table.
"I’m fine." The word came out too bright. "Just tired."
She reached out and caught my wrist. Her hand was papery and cool, spotted with age, but her grip was surprisingly firm.
"Your grandmother used to get that same look," she said quietly. "Right before she'd take on something too heavy to carry alone."
I couldn't speak.
"Whatever it is," Mrs. Patterson said, "you don't have to carry it by yourself. Remember that."
She released my wrist, gathered her things, and walked out to her waiting car. I watched her go, blinking hard against the burning in my eyes.
Then Marcus appeared in the doorway.
