“Yes, ma’am.”
“Dana.”
“Yes, Dana.”
She lowers her hands and squeezes my shoulders in the exact way I’ve seen her do to Peter. Being touched the same way she touches her son—like I’m already part of the family, like there’s no audition required—cracks open a door I’ve been keeping locked for a long time.
Rob gives me a nod and a warm side hug. “The work you did here is exceptional. I forgot to mention it.”
“Thank you, Rob.”
“Don’t let her drive the whole way,” Peter tells his dad.
Rob heads for the driver’s seat, effectively blocking his wife’s attempt at getting there first. “She’ll want to, but she’ll be asleep before Truro.”
“I heard that, Robert.”
“You were meant to, love.”
They bicker their way into the rental car, and Peter stands next to me in the driveway with his arm around my waist as we watch them pull away. His mom waves out the window until the car rounds the bend. Then it’s quiet. Their absence is immediate and specific. I wasn’t prepared for it.
Two days.
They were here for two days.
In that time, Dana told me three stories about Peter as a baby, which he begged her not to tell, taught me her secret for Portuguese custard tarts, and casually mentioned—while we were alone in the kitchen—that her son hasn’t been this happy in years. Rob asked me detailed questions about marine construction no one outside the industry has ever cared enough to ask, quietly refilled my wine glass every time it got low, and laughed at my jokes with the surprised delight of a man who didn’t expect to find someone as blunt as his wife in his son’s kitchen.
They loved me. Not performatively, not conditionally, not with the asterisks and fine print that love has always come with in my family. They just—loved me. Immediately and without reservation, the same way they love Leo and now Neve, the same way they love each other, the same way they raised their son to love.
Now they’re gone, and I’m standing in Peter’s driveway. And the contrast between what I experienced these past couple of days and what I grew up with is so sharp, it draws blood.
My dad would never hold my face in his hands. My mother would never tell someone to take care of me, because that would require her to believe I’m worth taking care of. I have spent thirty-five years building a life that doesn’t require the kind of love the Darcys hand out like it costs them nothing. Two days in their presence have made me realize the life I built isn’t a fortress. It’s a cage. And I’ve been sitting in it so long, I forgot there was a door.
“Hey.” Peter’s voice is soft, and his thumb is moving in slow circles against my hip. “You okay?”
“Yeah.” My voice is thick, and I clear my throat. “Your parents are really something.”
“They are.” He presses a kiss to my temple. “They love you, you know.”
I feel it, but can’t admit it out loud. “They don’t even know me.”
“They know enough.” He says it like it’s obvious. Like loving me is the logical conclusion anyone would come to, given sufficient data. I want to argue. I want to list all the reasons that’s naive and premature and dangerous, but I’m so tired of arguing against the thing I want most.
“What do you want to do tonight?” he asks. It’s a normal question. Casual. Something you ask someone on a regular evening when the house is suddenly empty and the schedule is open.
“Stay,” I reply.
It comes out before I’ve fully formed the thought. Not,I want to stay, orcan I stay, orwould it be okay if I stayed?Just…stay. One syllable. No qualification. Like my mouth made the decision three days ago and has been waiting for the rest of me to catch up.
Peter goes still beside me. Not tense. The opposite. Like every muscle in his body has exhaled.
“Yeah?” he asks.
“Yeah.”
He doesn’t make a big deal out of it. Doesn’t ask whether I’m sure, doesn’t point out this is a first, doesn’t do any of the things that would make me feel the weight of what I just suggested. He turns his head, kisses my hair, and says, “I’ll make supper.”
And I love him for that. For saying supper instead of dinner. For knowing the biggest things I do and say come out small and sideways, and the worst thing he could do is hold them up to the light.
