She darts back to hug Penny first, then throws her arms around my waist and squeezes tight. Then she’s gone, swallowed into the noise of the courtyard, and we stand there a for a moment, watching her go.
“She’s very clear on your picnic shortcomings,” Penny says.
“I’ve kept her alive for five years.”
“She sounds unconvinced.”
I glance at her. “You taking her side already?”
“I always take the side of the small and loud.”
A laugh rumbles through me, but she keeps her eyes on the school door until the kids have all filed inside.
“That lake,” she says lightly. “It’s special, right?”
“Yeah,” I say. “There’s a spot on the far side, been going there ever since Elle was little.”
Penny glances at me. “You take her there a lot?”
“Whenever things got loud.” I shrug slightly. “After bad shifts or custody bullshit—days where she missed her mom and I didn’t know how to fix it. Sometimes we’d just sit there for an hour, throwing rocks into the water and not saying much.”
“Sounds like an important place,” she says quietly.
I look ahead toward the school instead of at her.
“Yeah,” I admit after a second. “It is.”
There’s a pause, and she exhales slowly.
“Well then,” she says. “Guess I’ll bring better hot chocolate.”
I smirk, and we start walking back toward the house, slower now without Elle tugging us forward.
Our hands brush again as we walk side by side, but neither of us pulls away.
Chapter sixteen
Say goodnight to me again
Penny
By Friday afternoon, the kitchen smells like garlic and butter and something faintly sweet from the cherry tomatoes blistering in the pan. I’ve got pasta water rolling behind me, and steam fogging the kitchen window just enough to blur the view of the street.
The late light comes in sideways this time of day, softer than it was an hour ago, catching the specks of grated cheese I never quite wiped off the counter earlier.
“Can I stir?” Elle asks, already reaching.
“You can stir if you don’t redecorate the floor,” I tell her, sliding the wooden spoon into her hand.
She stands on the little stool by the stove, her face serious and shoulders squared. Gus lies stretched across the doorway as if he’s decided this is where the action is. The house feels full and there’s no hesitancy anymore, or pause where I check myself before reaching into a cabinet like I’m intruding.
I know where things are, and I know how the tea towels get folded. I know Elle won’t eat the cherry tomatoes unless I cut them in half first and cook them for long enough that they basically caramelize.
That’s the part that gets me.
I don’t trust myself not to get in the way eventually, to ruin something. Or push too far without realizing until it’s already shifted. I don’t trust that when the cracks appear, I won’t make them worse because I’ve seen how quickly things turn.
With my mom, then my dad. With everything that came after.
