“No.”
He laughed through tears.
“I spilled sauce on my shirt.”
“You changed into one of mine.”
“Because you had clothes in the truck.”
“I was supposed to stay one night.”
“You stayed three.”
His hand went to his mouth.
The memory had opened farther.
“I remember waking up and you were on the floor.”
“The bed was small.”
“You said you fell.”
“I lied.”
“You gave me the mattress.”
“Yes.”
Noah began to cry.
Not violently.
Quietly, as though the grief and joy had found the same path out.
I turned off the burner.
Then I took him into my arms.
He came willingly.
His face pressed against my neck.
“I remember wanting you to stay.”
“I stayed.”
“I remember being afraid you’d leave before morning.”
“I didn’t.”
His breathing hitched.
“You were there.”
“Yes.”
“I can see your hand on the windowsill.”
