He leaves his coffee on the counter and goes upstairs, his footsteps heavy on the stairs, announcing his position.
I stand in the kitchen alone.
Three mugs are on the counter. The blanket is folded on the couch. The sticky note is in my pocket.Thank you.—M.
I pick up my phone and open a new message to Richard.
Richard. We need to talk. Today. About Maya.
I send it, lock the phone, and set it on the counter.
The response comes in under a minute.
I've been waiting for this call. 4 p.m. My office. Bring Cole.
He knew. Richard answered in less than a minute. The father who drove four hours. The man who showed her the door bar trick. An attorney who sealed her name.
The house is quiet. Maya is behind her door. Cole is behind his. The phone is on the counter between the three mugs.
Marco's next text will come. It always comes. The family is already there before you decide whether to reach for it.
I head to practice. The sticky note is in my pocket. The promise I made Cole is four minutes old.
It already weighs more than anything Marco has ever asked of me.
Chapter 17
Cole
Thursday, Dante has film review with Addison until nine. Maya comes downstairs at seven in bare feet, my basketball shorts, and the gray sweatshirt I left on the back of the couch three days ago.
She has been wearing it since Tuesday.
I keep my mouth shut because mentioning it would give her a reason to stop, and I like seeing her in my clothes too much to give her one.
"Smells good," she says.
"Cacio e pepe.Dante's recipe."
She sits on the left side of the counter near the window, facing the door in the spot she claimed without asking any of us for permission. Her laptop is upstairs. Her phone is upstairs.
She came down without either.
I keep stirring because looking too long would tell her exactly what I know. Her knee rests against the cabinet with no phone beside it. No screen to light up. No 413 to pull her out of the kitchen.
"Where's Dante?"
"Film with Addison. Back by nine."
"So it's us."
"Us."
She pulls her knees up, and the sweatshirt stretches over them. She looks smaller inside my clothes than she does in her own, and my grip tightens around the wooden spoon hard enough to bite into my palm.
I plate the pasta into two bowls. She takes hers with both hands the way she takes the tea, wrapping her palms around the warmth.
We eat at the counter, me standing beside her with her shoulder against my arm. The contact is hers. She initiated it by sitting close enough that the gap collapsed. I let it happen. Moving away would be the right thing to do, so I stay exactly where I am.
