The front door is locked. Genny is beside me. Dante and Cole are upstairs.
Four in. Four hold. Four out.
My fingers find the keys. The cursor blinks.
I write.
Chapter 19
Dante
Saturday morning, I make coffee at six while the kitchen is still dark and the rest of the house stays quiet.
Three weeks of routine sit in my hands before anyone else comes downstairs. Coffee first. Two mugs on the counter for when they come down. Eggs if Maya is up before eight, because she eats when food appears and skips meals when it doesn't. Cole's protein shake goes in the blender at 6:45, loud enough to wake him and quiet enough to leave the spare room untouched.
My phone buzzes on the counter. Marco.
Papà arrives in Boston on Tuesday. Dinner is not optional. Location to follow.
I read the text, set the phone down, and pour the coffee.
Tuesday. Four days.
My father will be in this city while Richard's parole violation report works its way through the system. Maya's father is breathing the same air. The envelope stays sealed in the zippered pocket of her bag. My grip tightens around the coffee pot before I set it back on the counter.
My father notices what is missing from a sentence before anyone finishes speaking. At dinner, he will sit across from me with a glass in his hand and wait for the first thing I do not say.
Two mugs go on the counter. Cole's on the left. Maya's on the right. The positioning is habitual. I stopped thinking about it the same way I stopped thinking about the three plates in the drying rack or the third pair of boots by the door.
Cole comes down at seven in a T-shirt and sweats, barefoot, hair still sleep-messy. Straight to the coffee, he takes the mug on the left and drinks standing up. The morning routine. Six years of shared space moving without discussion.
"Morning," he says.
"Morning."
He leans against the counter. The space between us is the space it always is: shoulder width, comfortable, his elbow clearing mine without either of us looking. Coffee disappears in silence. His first. Mine after.
Maya comes down at 7:40. She takes the mug on the right with both hands, the way she holds warm things.
"Morning," she says.
"Morning," I say.
"Hey," Cole says.
She sits on the counter in her spot, knees up, mug between her palms. Her gaze moves to Cole. He looks back.
The look lasts two seconds. Maybe less. Then Cole's eyes drop to his coffee and Maya's eyes drop to her mug, and the exchange carries more information than either of them intended to transmit.
Cole's hand rests on the counter beside her thigh, close enough that the gap between his knuckle and her knee is smaller than it was last week. Chosen.
Maya is still facing the door because Maya always faces the door, but her body has shifted maybe ten degrees from its usual orientation. Her shoulder points toward Cole in a way it did not a week ago.
And his voice when he said hey was lower than morning, softer than casual, the register he uses in the dark.
Her eyes, when they lifted to his, carried warmth I have never seen in Maya's face. Her mouth softens before she catches it.
The kitchen is bright. Coffee burns hot in my hand, theirs are on the counter, and the geometry has shifted.
