“And he has, like, a super-rewarding job,” I chimed in uselessly.
Stepping lightly over our threshold, Maisie hugged me and said in a soft voice, “I know how hard this is.”
Then she hugged Oliver, and he hugged her back and replied, “Just so you know, Jaz will always have a home here if she…if she needs one or if she wants one or…”
“Or if she just wants to visit,” I added, not at all desperately. “You will visit, right?”
Jaz made the most noncommittal sound I’d heard her make in two years of hearing her make extremely noncommittal sounds. Which was the closest she was ever going to get to a yes.
“Of course we will.” Being a grown-up, Maisie was slightly more willing to be reassuring.
And then we all lapsed into a horrible silence.
“We know this is for the best,” said Oliver in that what-matters-is-what’s-right way of his that, honestly, we all really needed from him just in that moment. “And we know she’s not ours. But…”
“But we’re hers,” I finished for him. “Always. Or as long as she wants us.”
From the look on Jaz’s face,as long as she wanted usended about eight minutes ago, but her face was sometimes deceptive. Especially when feelings were involved. It was one of the many things we had in common. Or, possibly, one of the many ways I was still worryingly like a teenager.
Maisie picked up the last remaining bag. “Well.”
“Well,” I echoed.
And then I said “I guess you should…” at the exact same time Maisie said “I guess we should…”
“We shouldn’t keep you,” cut in Oliver firmly.
Which was, unfortunately, true. On many levels.
We shut the door and were just retreating, full-on-no-shit heartbroken into our front room, when there was another knock.
Spud fucking lost it.
“Isuppose,” said Jaz when Oliver and I opened the door again, “that, all things considered, what with one thing and another, in the overall scheme of things you weren’tcompletelyshit foster parents.”
Oliver put his hand on his heart. “Thank you, that means a lot.”
“To be clear,” I added, “he’s pretending to be sarcastic, but we both totally mean it.”
I got the impression that Jaz was already one-third regretting this. “And,” she added, “I might actually maybe miss you sometimes maybe.” She dropped into a squat and ruffled Spud’s fur. “And I willreallymissyoubecauseyouare thebest boy, aren’t you?”
“Are we in the way?” I asked.
Jaz glanced up, half smirking. “A bit, if I’m honest.”
“To be clear,” said Oliver, with the sternness that Jaz had long since stopped taking seriously, “you don’t get to keep our dog.”
“Yeah.” Jaz continued commiserating with Spud. “Not fair, isn’t it, boy?”
“Arooou,” agreed Spud, the little fluffy traitor.
Once our foster daughter—former foster daughter—had finished ignoring us in favour of our pet, she stood back up. And finally, with a don’t-you-fucking-dare-say-anything look on her face, she hugged me.
Then she hugged Oliver.
Then she crouched back down to pat Spud again.
“Right,” she said. “I’m out. But I’ll be back to check in on Spud so…behave yourselves.”
