I open the bottle and set a glass of wine in front of her. My fingers brush hers on the counter. She doesn't pull away. Her eyes lift to mine and hold for a second longer than the glass requires.
"Thank you," she says. Soft. The voice she uses with me when she isn't bracing so hard.
"Always."
Her fingers tighten once around the stem of the glass.
Dante comes downstairs at 7:10 in a different shirt, his hair damp from a second shower.
He sees Maya. He stops at the bottom of the stairs for a half-second, one foot angling toward the kitchen before the rest of him follows. Then he's in the kitchen. Opens a cabinet. Gets a glass of water. Drinks it standing at the counter and carries it with him.
"Hey," Maya says. Her voice is casual. Her hand tightens on the stem of her wine glass.
"Hey," Dante says.
To the water glass.
The distance between them is precise. Four feet.
The distance between Dante and me is different.
He stands at the counter where he stood this morning when he wouldn't meet my eyes. The gap between us carries the weight of his fake fine and the bruise on his lip and the walk I took at midnight because I couldn't stand in the same house with his silence.
I plate the pasta into three bowls. Maya stays on the counter stool with her back to the wall. Dante takes the stool on the other side, water glass beside his bowl, and I sit between them.
"Eat," I say.
We eat.
"Deadline still Friday?" I ask Maya.
"Still Friday. But Kenji's out sick so I'm covering his section too."
"The Hartwick preview?"
"And the recruiting roundup. Two pieces, one editor." She twirls pasta around her fork. "I'll manage."
"You always manage," I say. "That's the problem."
She looks at me. The fork pauses. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"It means you'd manage yourself into the ground before you'd ask anyone for help."
"That's rich coming from the man who cooked dinner for three people after a full practice and still hasn't sat down for more than thirty seconds."
"I sat down."
"You sat down and immediately started watching both of us like a film session."
She caught me. Her eyes hold mine, the same challenge in them she's been throwing at me since we were thirteen.
I hold her gaze and let the corner of my mouth lift.
"Habit," I say.
"Bad habit."
"My best one."
