“We?”
I stand up from where I was pulling out another weed, realizing I was likely hidden.
Before I can introduce myself, Stevie says, “Jebediah and I.”
“Jack Sullivan,” I interrupt. Stevie’s mom’s face lights up when she sees me, a smile that looks like sunshine.
“Perfect,” she says. “So glad to see you again, Jack. Why don’t you both come in for tea?”
She doesn’t pose it as a question, and Stevie must know this, too, because she sighs and wipes her hands on her pants before heading toward the gate. Her mom disappears into the house, and I follow after Stevie. She glances behind us as she latches the gate, surveying the garden.
“Well, we got some of it done.”
“We can come back if we need to.”
She lifts a single brow. “We?”
“I’m not a quitter.”
This loosens a surprised laugh out of her, and I’m not able to suppress a smile at the sound of it. “Come on, or my mom will be back out here.”
The house smells like lavender when we walk in, but not like cheap lavender candles my mom used to burn in our apartment. This smells fresher, less synthetic. Still, it reminds me of her, and I get that ache in my chest that always accompanies it.
Wallpaper lines the walls, and beside the back door are a neat line of work boots and gardening gloves, a floppy wicker sunhat hanging on weathered wooden hooks on the wall. The floors are what I imagine is the original wood, scarred and worn from years of use. There are faint muddy footprints on the thin planks and a stack of mail on a vintage wooden table that makes the place feel lived in.
Stevie kicks off her shoes, so I follow suit then trail after her down the hall. There are voices at the end of it in what looks like the kitchen. When we enter, there’s a man sitting at a table in a breakfast nook, a heating pad pressed to his back and plugged into an outlet in the wall beside him. While Stevie’s mom didn’t look anything like her, this man, who I assume is her father, isa more masculine image of her. Same thick eyebrows framing hazel eyes and dark, heavy lashes. Same cascade of deep brown hair, although his is peppered with gray and pushed back from his forehead and falling over his ears in a surprisingly stylish cut for his age. He’s also got her freckles and straight nose. Same smile, too, as he spots us.
But when I look at Stevie, she’s not reflecting it. Her brows are pinched together, twin half-moons forming between them. She’s staring at his arm, and when I take another look at him, I notice the white hospital bracelet wrapped around it. “You went to the hospital?”
“It was no big deal,” he says with a flick of his wrist. “I just needed to get a steroid shot so I could get some work done. Things were falling behind.”
“You could have asked me to help,” Stevie says, sounding exasperated.
“You have a job, honey. Really, I’m fine.”
“You had to go to the hospital.”
“Stevie,” a voice says from the other side of the kitchen, and I turn to see Stevie’s mom entering through another doorway, wiping her hands on a kitchen towel. “Everything is fine. You don’t need to worry.”
I look at Stevie and watch as her expression changes from concerned to annoyed to resigned in just a handful of seconds, watch as she stuffs it all away, her shoulders rising and falling as she exhales through her nose. Finally, she looks at her mom and asks, “Do you need help with the tea?” Her voice is almost unrecognizable, distant and softer than I’ve heard before, but if her parents notice, they don’t comment on it.
“No,” her mom says. “You two sit down and keep your dad company.”
We do as we’re told, and Stevie’s mom moves around the kitchen, pulling out glasses from a cupboard and a pitcher from the fridge.
“So who do we have here?” Stevie’s dad asks, voice booming in the small kitchen.
My attention snaps to him, and I extend my hand, shaking off whatever observations I made from the entire exchange. None of them seem to want to continue it. “Jack Sullivan, sir. I’m Stevie’s roommate.”
“Ah,” he says, shaking my hand in his firm, callused grip. “Anthony Lynch, Stevie’s dad.” He says this proudly, like out of all the titles he has, this one is his favorite, and it endears me to him as well as sends a pang of envy through me. My father wasn’t interested in sticking around when he found out my mom was pregnant with Evan and me, so I’ve never experienced that look of pride on Stevie’s dad’s face, and I’ve always wondered what it must feel like.
“I hear you’re the nurse who saved my daughter’s life.”
I let out a surprised chuckle. “Not quite that dramatic,” I assure him. “But she was one of my patients the night of her concussion.”
“Well, thank you for taking care of her. I’m grateful.”
“Yes, thank you, Jack,” Stevie’s mom says, bustling around the island to the breakfast nook with a tray of glasses and fruit. “I’m Jamie, by the way. I know we’ve met, but I didn’t get a chance to introduce myself.”
