“Eat your Cheerios, Ermington.”
I already am.
“We should get the story straight.”
“The story,” I repeat.
“What we tell people. Before someone asks and we say two different things.”
I think about it around a mouthful. “It’s not really a story. We’re not inventing anything. Our dads have known each other forever. I live three doors down. The only thing we’re—”
“Fine. We edit.”
“Editing.” I point the spoon at her. “That.”
She pulls her sleeves down further. “We started two weeks ago. That’s it. Simple.”
“Simple ones hold.”
We sit with that. The math’s done. The story exists.
After a minute, “Why two weeks?”
“Because if anyone does the work, they can pin it to about the start of the season. Practices, scrimmages — you’ve been in the building. It’s plausible.”
She nods, doing the math I’ve already done, doing it faster.
“And the part where we hate each other—”
“Recent development. Domestic squabble. We’re working through it.”
“We’re working through it,” she repeats.
“It’s the early days of a great relationship, Linwood. There’s gonna be some growing pains.”
She laughs. A real one this time, and she presses her lips together like that’ll keep the rest of them in.
I finish the cereal. I set the bowl on her nightstand because the desk is too far and I’m comfortable.
“Not on the nightstand.”
“Where am I supposed to put it?”
“Anywhere else. Not on my nightstand, Ermington.”
“This is what a host does, Linwood. A host takes the bowl.”
She takes the bowl. She sets it on the floor at the foot of the bed where I can’t reach it and pulls her knees up to her chest.
“You should go home.”
I look at her. “Yeah.”
Neither of us moves. I check my phone. Two fifty-three. I lean my head back against her footboard and close my eyes for half a second.
“Linwood.”
“What?”
