Page 87 of We Are Just Us

“It’s an adaptogen,” Patti said. “It reduces cortisol.”

Kieran looked at the bowl. “In the soup.”

“In the soup.”

Devon leaned toward Kieran. “Just eat it,” she said quietly. “It’s incredible. I can’t explain it either.”

Kieran took a bite. It was, against every reasonable expectation, one of the best things he’d ever eaten. The turmeric was warm without being aggressive, the coconut cream was rich, and whatever the fermented cashew situation was doing, it was working.

“This is amazing,” he said.

“She won’t tell you how she does it,” Devon said. “I’ve been asking for two years.”

“The secret is patience,” Patti said.

“The secret is witchcraft,” Devon said. “She mutters to it while it’s on the stove. I’ve heard her.”

Patti didn’t look up. “I was checking the consistency.”

“You were talking to soup, Patti.”

They ate. Patti talked about her work at the botanical garden, where she’d been fighting a losing battle against an invasive species of snail for seven months.

“They’re organized,” Patti said grimly. “I’m not kidding. They move in formation.”

“She’s going to come home one day and tell me the snails have taken a hostage,” Devon said.

“They’ve already taken the hydrangeas! It’s only a matter of time.”

Devon talked about FOAM, about a regular who tried to tip in cryptocurrency, which Devon refused to acknowledge as real money. A new espresso machine that arrived broken. The college kid she hired who kept calling her “ma’am” until she threatened to schedule him exclusively for Sunday opens.

Kieran laughed, the kind that surprised him, deep and sudden in his stomach.

“How’s Rory doing?” Patti asked, the way you’d ask about the weather.

Kieran turned his spoon. “Good. He’s good. We’re…figuring things out.”

Devon looked at him over her wine glass but didn’t push.

“Figuring things out is literally all we’ve done for five years,” Devon said. “We’re still figuring out whose turn it is to take the bins out.”

“It’s your turn,” Patti said.

“It’s been my turn since 2021,” Devon said. “The system is broken.”

Pickles had relocated to the floor during dinner but was now pressing his entire body against Kieran’s ankle with a devotion that bordered on religious.

Juniper hadn’t moved. She was still staring.

Somewhere deeper in the house, a heavy object fell over.

“Kazax,” Devon and Patti said in unison, without turning around.

After dinner, they moved to the couch. Devon opened a second bottle. Patti curled into the corner with her legs tucked under her, and Kieran took the other end, which Pickles immediately reclaimed, landing on his lap with a thud that suggested the cat had been practicing.

Devon sat cross-legged on the floor, her back against Patti’s legs, wine glass balanced on her knee. Patti reached over to the speaker on the shelf and put on an album—acoustic, a woman’s voice over a quiet guitar. It filled the room the way good music does, not demanding attention, but still changing the air.

They weren’t talking to him, exactly. They were talking to each other, around each other, the way couples do when they’ve been together long enough that a guest in the room doesn’t change the frequency.