“Back here!” he yells from the kitchen.
I’ve known Joe since I was a kid—Milo’s grandpa, part of the family I somehow grew into by association. I’ve spent enough Saturday mornings with him to know the crankier he is, the more he loves you.
“I’ve got your coffee and scone,” I say as I walk back to the small kitchen that has never seen an update. Harvest-gold appliances line the walls like they’ve earned their place by outlasting everything else, and the Formica countertops have settled into amellow yellow that feels more like Joe than any design choice ever could—stubborn, worn-in, and not interested in changing for anyone. The cabinets always creak with complaints when I open them, and the linoleum floor carries the scuffs of decades of the same routine.
When I enter, he’s sitting at the wooden table, his walker to the side of him. “How are you today?”
“Same old man you saw last week,” he replies.
“How’s your hip?”
“It’s a hip. Not a very good one, but a hip,” he grumbles.
I open a cabinet door and take out a chipped white plate. Then I open the bag. “Looks like cinnamon today,” I say as I place the scone on the plate.
I set the plate and his standard Americano with a splash of cream in front of him before bending down and giving him a quick kiss on the forehead.
“Thanks, Sadie.”
I sit beside him. “I noticed your flower beds are weeded.”
He breaks off a piece of his scone. “Milo.”
I nod. “Saw his truck down at the café.”
“Making sure he wasn’t here?”
“Just . . . not ready to fix things.”
He takes a sip of his coffee. “You know, fixing things ain’t so bad.”
I twirl the straw in my cup. “I might want to build something new.”
I take another sip. It’s still not right.
“New’s good, too,” he murmurs. “Though I’m not getting that new hip.”
I raise my brows at him. “The doctor said you’d be able to move around better.”
“Move around where? Closer to the grave?” he grunts.
I smile. “What does Milo say about it?”
Joe’s blue eyes sink to his scone. “That he’d help me.”
“It’s okay for someone to help you,” I say.
“Ha. That’s the pot calling the kettle black. You haven’t let anyone help you since diapers.”
I swallow. “Not wrong,” I admit.
He shrugs, giving me that knowing look.
“Joe . . .” I trail off, letting silence become a sinking pit between us. I trace a scuff in the floor with my eyes, finding a frowning face in the worn linoleum, its crooked mouth pulled low like it already knows how this is going to end.
“You better say what you want to before I die waiting,” he says gruffly.
“You know me.”
