“That was fast,” he says, straightening.
“I didn’t want to keep you waiting.”
He watches me for a beat longer, like he’s weighing something, then nods toward the couch. “Sit. I’ll grab the wine.”
I sink into the cushions, the fire crackling as it grows, stretching shadows across the walls. The warmth seeps into my skin, unraveling something tight in my shoulders. A moment later, Hopper returns, two glasses in hand.
He hands me one before settling beside me. Not too close, not too far. Just enough space for the air between us to feel charged with something I don’t want to name.
We sit in silence for a while, watching the flames dance.
And then—softly, like he’s testing the weight of the words—Hopper says, “It’s okay to feel uneasy.”
I glance at him, startled. “What?”
His fingers tighten around his glass. “You seem concerned, but not scared. As if you’re trying to fight something. My mother told me a couple of times before . . . before she died that it’s okay to not be okay, to not be brave all the time.”
“She said that?” I ask, because that’s weird thing for a mother to say, isn’t it?
“Yeah, she knew I was afraid of not being a good father. That I would fuck it up at some point the way our father did,” he confesses.
Slowly, carefully, Hopper leans back, taking a sip of his drink, like he just said too much to a stranger. And I wish he would say more, so I ask, “What happened to Maddie’s mom?”
Chapter Eight
Hopper
The fire crackles in the stone fireplace. The scent of burning wood lingers in the air, mixing with the faint traces of wine and Nysa’s floral scent.
She sits curled into the corner of the couch, her legs tucked beneath her, one hand wrapped around a half-full glass of wine. Her other hand trails lazily along the stem, her thumb tracing slow circles like she’s lost in thought.
I’m in the armchair across from her, my own glass resting against my knee. Maddie is upstairs, fast asleep, and for the first time in a long time, the house feels . . . quiet. It’s not a silence that suffocates. No, it’s the one that makes you feel like maybe, just maybe, the world outside can wait a little longer. But her question, though, that still remains in the air, and she’s obviously waiting for an answer.
What happened to Maddie’s mom?
I should’ve expected it. She’s asked a couple of times before. I take a slow sip of wine before answering. That’s something I haven’t told many people. My brothers don’t know, they haven’t even asked. They just accepted that I’m a father of an energetic baby girl.
My mother knew, but she took that to the grave. Maddie may start asking soon, and what will I tell her? I’ll have to tell her the whole story, won’t I?
This isn’t that time to give any explanations. Nysa is temporary. Even when I would like her to stay longer, when I feel comfortable around her . . . I know that this might not happen. Would she stay in this small town? I don’t even know what her plans were before she took off for three years. Three years.
It’s better to do what I always do. I use the same short sentence I’ve given to anyone who’s ever asked. “She died.”
There. Simple. No messy explanations. No guilt. Just the way it should always be.
Nysa exhales slowly, her gaze never leaving mine.
“I assumed as much,” she says carefully. “But . . . I mean, obviously, I don’t want to pry, but there are no pictures of her anywhere.”
I shift in my chair, gripping my glass a little tighter.
“When my parents and my brother died,” she continues, her voice softer now, “my grandparents made sure I had their pictures with me. The therapist said it’d help with the grief.”
I nod, but I don’t say anything. Because I never had pictures. No one gave me anything. Was there anything to be given?
Nysa watches me for a long moment before she finally says, “You can’t just erase her.”
Not erased. Just . . . put away, maybe? That’s not even exactly the thing, is it? Maddie’s case is different. So complicated, or maybe it’s easy. I don’t know for sure.
