"Hate to break it up, but Atlas and I have made other arrangements. We drew straws. I won."
"Excuse me, what."
"Cleaning is a three-man job. Atlas and Bane are cleaning. I am driving home tonight to be in your bed when you get there."
"You're—Zero, you can't be in my bed when I get there, Margot will—"
"Well then maybe not when you get there. But I’ll be in your bed tonight. Trust that."
A look between Bane and Zero. Years of brother-shorthand in two seconds.
"We'll see who gets there first."
"Bane, you are not racing me—"
"I drive fast."
"You drive like a senior citizen."
"I drive carefully. Atlas, are you hearing this?"
And Atlas, hauling the cooler past us toward the front door, calm and amused: "I'm hearing all of it. I am also driving home tonight. I'll be there before either of you."
"You are not."
"I am the only one of us with a coherent route plan."
"Atlas."
"And the only one with a key to the back gate that doesn't squeak."
Zero went after Bane before the dishwasher was half-loaded. Pinned him to the fridge by the front of his shirt, low, almost calm, the way Zero only gets when he is genuinely going to put hands on someone. Bane took it standing up, grinning. Then Atlas walked past on his way to the trash can and slapped the back of Zero's head without slowing down. Drop him. Zero dropped him. Bane straightened his collar like a gentleman and went back to rinsing plates. Margot came in two minutes later to ask if everyone was alright. They told her they were debating the dishwasher loading method. She told them she wished they were always this passionate about chores and went back outside.
I am still smiling about it.
I drag a hand through my hair and go back downstairs.
Margot has the lemonade pitcher out of the fridge.
It is the one she brought into the marriage—heavy cut glass, slightly chipped at the lip, embarrassingly retro. She used it to pour me lemonade my first full night with her as her son.
To say that thing holds memories is an understatement.
She pours three tall glasses at the kitchen island and slides one to me and one to Richard, who has settled onto a stool with the day's mail and is sorting it into piles before he reads any of it.
I pull up a stool. Margot leans across the island on her elbows. The afternoon light is coming through the big window over the sink, gold and slanted, catching the dust in the air.
It is the most ordinary minute of my life.
I take a long drink. The lemonade is too sweet, the way Margot makes it—honeyed, real lemons, a slice floating on top. I close my eyes and let the cold of it run down my throat.
"Thank you guys," I say. "For the trip."
Margot tilts her head. Richard looks up from his mail.
"I mean it." I am looking at my lemonade now because eye contact is going to make me embarrassed. "I—honestly, I wasn't sure I was going to enjoy it. The whole drive up I was waiting to feel weird. And I just—didn't. It was a really good week. The best one I've had in a long time."
Margot is very still. Her palm spreads flat against the marble.
