“Tea,” I say. “I’m putting the kettle on.”
I’m back in the kitchen. Kettle on the stove. Saylor is sweeping the glass methodically, thoroughly, his jaw set in that way that means he’s not in the kitchen anymore. He’s somewhere else. He’s in the math of his life—the equation where his happiness always subtracts from his mother’s safety, where every moment he spends with me is a moment he’s not watching her, where the guilt compounds interest on a debt he’ll never believe is paid.
I can read it on his face: this is why he can’t have this. Can’t have me. Can’t have a life. Because his mother will always need him more than any woman will tolerate being needed less.
I think for some odd reason, he’s embarrassed. I can’t fathom why, but there’s the slight hunch of his shoulders, the way he won’t meet my eyes, the quiet resignation of a man who has auditioned for happiness and been rejected so many times he’s stopped expecting callbacks.
The kettle whistles. I pour Ada’s tea. Bring it to her. She wraps her hands around the mug and the color is starting to return to her face. She smiles at me in a way where “thank you” seems redundant. What a special gift. One none of the mothers I knew growing up possessed. How to make someone feel loved with just a look. I squeeze her hand and tell her I’ll be right back.
I find Saylor in the kitchen. He’s finished sweeping. He’s standing at the sink, gripping the edge of the counter, staring out the window at the dark yard.
“I’m going,” I tell him.
His head drops. Barely perceptible. An inch of surrender. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “I understand.”
“No you don’t.” I wait until he looks at me. His eyes meet mine, bloodshot and weary, like a boxer who’s already taken too many hits but knows the final bell hasn’t rung yet. “I’m going to the grocery store. There’s one about ten minutes up the road. We need popcorn. And wine for me, and mocktails for your mum because she can’t drink after taking that medication. I read the bottle.” I swipe my keys from the counter. “Can you get the TV connected to Wi-Fi while I’m gone? When I get back, we’re doing a movie marathon. All three of us.”
He stares at me.
“Is that okay?” I ask.
He stares at me some more. Something is happening behind his eyes—a recalculation, a rewiring, the slow and disbelievingrecognition that the thing he expected to happen is not happening.
“That’s—” His voice catches. He clears his throat. “That’s great. Are you sure?”
“Very sure.” I grab my bag, head for the door, but Saylor catches up to me, stopping me with one hand on my shoulder. “Wait. One correction to your plan.”
“What’s that?”
“I’m coming with you to the store. Then we’ll set up the TV together.”
“You don’t trust me to go to the store by myself?”
“Well, I trust you in the store. It’s the getting there part that’s a public safety concern. I want to drive you…you know, for the safety and wellbeing of all the other drivers in Westchester who want to live past tonight.”
“Hilarious,” I deadpan.
His laugh is quiet, rough, the sound of relief disguised as amusement. He grabs his wallet off the counter and follows me to the door.
After assuring us she’ll be fine for a while, Ada watches us leave from the couch, tea in her hands, the blanket Saylor chose pulled up to her waist. She looks small in the living room—small and warm and safe in a house that’s starting to feel like something more than an unpleasant childhood memory or a stage set or a strategy for impressing a caseworker.
It’s starting to feel like what Saylor built it to be.
A home.
“Hey, Saylor?” I say as we walk through the front door.
“Yes?”
“I want to warn you, I’m picky about my brand of popcorn. I don’t compromise when it comes to movie theater butter flavor.”
“I’d expect nothing less.”
“I just want to make that clear in case you want an out now. Popcorn brands matter when you move forward with someone.”
Saylor stops dead in his tracks. “What are you saying, Celeste? Because I’ll even eat nasty-ass kettle corn if it means moving forward with you.”
“You don’t like kettle corn?” I balk. “What’s wrong with you?”
