Page 18 of Deacon

She wore flannel sleep shorts and one of my old college T-shirts, moving between the stove and toaster with a spatula in one hand while eggs cooked and coffee filled the kitchen with its familiar bitterness. She looked completely at home there. Ordinary. Safe. The sight caught somewhere beneath my ribs, because Jackson had missed every version of this girl and had no idea what she had grown into.

Morning light spilled through the window above the sink, softening the room around her. Jade glanced up when I entered, her gaze passing quickly over my face in a check she tried to disguise.

“You look terrible.”

“Good morning to you too.”

“I made eggs.”

“That softens the insult.”

“It was constructive.”

I moved past her toward the coffee maker. “You are sixteen. Your feedback is neither requested nor billable.”

“Yet,” she said, sliding eggs onto two plates. “Give me time.”

I poured coffee and leaned against the counter while she finished breakfast.

She moved through my kitchen because it belonged to her.

Because for all the things Jackson missed, for every year he had been gone, this was mine. This girl. This life. All these mornings stitched together from sarcasm, school deadlines, burnt toast, and me pretending I wasn’t terrified by how quickly she was growing up.

“Chemistry test today,” I reminded her, because routine was comforting and because if I didn’t say it, she might assume I had sustained a concussion overnight.

Jade rolled her eyes and set a plate in front of me. “I know.”

“And your Of Mice and Men paper is due next week.”

“I know.”

“And Sunday dinner at your grandfather’s is still happening, so don’t act surprised when he starts asking whether you’ve given any more thought to your future.”

Jade groaned as she dropped into the chair across from me. “By future, you mean Grandpa asking about college, Uncle Matty asking what I plan to do with my sketchbooks, and everyone staring at me like I’m supposed to map out my entire life before dessert?”

“Something like that.”

She stabbed a piece of egg with unnecessary force. “Can I become mysteriously unavailable every Sunday until I’m twenty-five?”

“No.”

“What if I fake mono?”

“You’d have to stop looking so healthy.”

“What if I looked fragile and artistic?”

“You already look artistic.” I lifted my mug. “Fragile would require more commitment.”

She gave me a flat look. “Grandpa is going to get that hopeful look in his eyes. Uncle Matty will call me Doodles and ask whether I’ve considered art school again, and somebody will put Grandma Rose’s recipe box on the table like it’s another side dish.”

My smile came before I could stop it. “That does sound likely.”

Jade pointed her fork at me. “See? You know I’m suffering.”

“You are being loved aggressively.”

“That still counts as suffering.”