She laughs, shaking her head. “I love Christmas, but it’s chaos. Cookie orders, expensive kid interests, teacher gifts,stocking stuffers. And the weather stress. Snowstorms used to cancel my shifts and I’d have to burn vacation days just to stay home when the school was closed.” She shrugs. “Easter is easy. Better weather. Less pressure. More candy. I hide chocolate eggs all over the house, we make pancakes, and spend the afternoon playing board games. It’s perfect.”
I can see it clearly, the two of them laughing in a kitchen that smells like syrup and coffee. They’re a tight unit. I find myself wondering if Sam knows how lucky he is to have a mom like Elliot.
Something tells me he does.
Once again, I find myself wondering where I would fit into their lives, if I fit at all. I’m not built for family, and God knows I didn’t come from one worth admiring. My childhood wasn’t a foundation. It was something I survived, and even that feels generous some days.
If by some miracle I don’t screw this up with Elliot, what am I supposed to be to her son? I’m no father figure. Maybe Sam doesn’t need one. He seems steady and happy without it. He has Ben. Maybe he won’t need anything from me at all, and maybe that should be a relief.
“You still with me?” Elliot asks, her head tilting slightly.
“Yeah.” I clear my throat and slide my empty plate away. “I was just trying to remember the last time someone cooked for me.” The lie comes easily.
She snorts. A small, unguarded sound. “I buttered bread and melted cheese. Let’s not pretend this was a home-cooked meal.”
“It was delicious. And you made it, in my home. That counts.” I meet her eyes. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” She straightens in her chair, posture suddenly careful. “It’s been a while since I cooked for anyone other than Sam.” She opens her mouth again, then closes it. I wait, letting the silence stretch. Her expression shifts throughhalf formed thoughts before she finally adds, quieter, “It’s been a while since I’ve done other things too.”
It takes me a beat to catch up. We are not talking about grilled cheese anymore. She won’t look at me now, and my mind scrambles for something smooth or reassuring. What comes out instead is rough and low.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” Her eyes stay fixed on the napkin she’s twisting around her fingers, winding it tighter and tighter.
“Well, same,” I say, mostly because I can’t think of a good reason not to tell the truth.
This time she looks up. “Yeah?”
I nod.
Her sharp, perceptive gaze studies my face, like she’s trying to decide whether I’m bluffing. “You don’t believe me?”
“No, I didn’t say that,” she rushes to clarify. “I just think maybe we have different definitions of what counts as ‘a while.’”
“Ah.”
“Like, you could say Montreal and Toronto are both going through Stanley Cup dry spells,” she continues, “but it’s been almost thirty years longer for one of them.”
I grin so wide it actually hurts. “I appreciate you using hockey metaphors to make your point. Truly.”
She smiles back. “You’re welcome. I guess what I’m saying is that my dry spell might be a little longer than yours.”
“Right.”
“Considerably longer, if we’re being honest.”
“Okay.”
“It’s not a competition, obviously.”
“Obviously.”
“But if it were, I would win.”
“You sound very confident.”
She shrugs, lips twitching. “There are dry spells, and then there are droughts.”
