We drink, then I glance up.
Phoenix has her card back in her hand, like she didn’t mean to pick it up again. Her fingers resting on it, quiet.
She’s not looking at us. She’s looking at the card. Before I can ask if she is alright, someone knocks on the door.
Mack looks at me, puzzled. “Are we expecting someone else?”
I stand up confused. At the door, a gangly teenage boy startles at my appearance.
“Ah! Oh my gosh, are you okay? Do I need to call an ambulance?” He asks, terrified.
“What are you …” Then I remember my green, lumpy face. I laugh. “I’m fine, just trying to stay young. Can I help you?”
“Here, delivery for ‘Girls Night’ it says.”
He hands me a heavenly-smelling bag. Warm through the paper, smelling like cumin and something fried. When I open it, I see it’s burritos from the local dive place across from his new job site. Sam must be working there late tonight. I smile at the thoughtfulness, and for the first time, I lean into embracing the progress.
I set the bag down on the table and watch the girls react—Nessa immediately investigating the contents, Mack finally releasing her hold on her face mask, Phoenix putting away her card for the first time all night.
As I close the door, my phone buzzes in my hand.
Unknown Number
I stare at it for a moment, then flip it face down on the console table. Not tonight.
36
SAM
There’s a rhythm to a job site when everything’s going right. Measure, cut, set. Clean. Predictable. The air smells like cut wood and dry heat, the kind of afternoon that makes the back of your neck burn before noon.
I sit on the tailgate and unwrap what might be the saddest sandwich ever assembled.
Two pieces of bread. Turkey. No cheese. No condiments. Just … commitment issues. I stare at it. “Three thousand dollars,” I say under my breath.
“Excuse me?”
I look up. Becca’s standing there, sunglasses pushed up into her long blonde hair, taking in the scene like she walked into something mildly offensive. She's in work clothes, a blazer she's pushed up at the sleeves, looking like she came straight from a showing.
I hold up the sandwich. “This is my three-thousand-dollar sandwich.”
She steps closer, squinting at it. “Grammy pack that for you?”
I huff a laugh. “Nope. She’s still mad at me. Told me to pack my own.”
“As she should,” Becca says easily.
“Yeah,” I say. “Feels right.”
She nods toward the sandwich. “Okay, but this is growth.”
“Is it?”
“Yes,” she says. “You know how much money you save packing your lunch? I told you—if you spend twelve dollars a day eating out?—”
“—It adds up,” I say. “To three thousand dollars.”
We smile at the memory, both seeing how far we have come. Becca collects herself, straightening her jacket.
