Two words. Simple. She needs food, I provide food, she thanks me, and I accept.Maya reaches. Cole delivers.Another plate lands exactly where her hand will find it.
My phone buzzes on the counter beside my keys.
Dad.
Georgetown deposit deadline is May 1. Just a reminder. No pressure.
I lock the phone and set it facedown. Georgetown. My father's dream for me, disguised as a reminder. The law degree he's been steering me toward since sophomore year. The career path that makes sense on paper and tightens every muscle between my throat and sternum. I'm going pro. The draft is in June. Georgetown is my father's architecture, and I've spent enough years living inside other people's blueprints.
"Your dad?" Maya asks.
"Yeah."
"Georgetown again?"
"Georgetown again."
Her fingers stop. She looks at me, and I force myself to keep my hand away from the phone as her eyes narrow slightly, pulling a thread she didn't expect to find.
"Are you applying?"
"No."
"Have you told him that?"
"I've told him four times. He hears what he wants to hear."
She watches me a beat longer, fingers hovering above the keys.
"Okay," she says, and goes back to her laptop.
She'll come back to it.
I pick up the pan and scrub it in the sink. Hot water runs over my hands, steam climbing toward my face, and the scrape of the sponge against the pan gets louder than it needs to be.
"Cole." Her voice comes from behind me. "What's going on?"
"Nothing. I'm scrubbing a pan."
"You're scrubbing the coating off the pan. That's a forty-dollar pan."
I stop. My fingers stay tight around the sponge for another second before I set the pan in the rack, dry my hands, and turn around.
She watches me with the laptop forgotten and both hands wrapped around the mug of tea Dante made before he left. Barry's, the brand he bought for her, in the only mug he set on the counter at six this morning before walking out the door.
One mug. Hers.
"I'm fine," I say.
"You've been performing fine for over a week. I can see through the performance because I've been watching the performance for nine years."
My fingers flex against the dish towel.
"I'm handling it," I say.
"Handling what?"
"Everything. The same way I always handle everything."
