"The good chili?"
"Aiden. It's always the good chili now. You passed the test in August."
August. When we drove to Coos Bay and I sat at Mama Thomas's table with my knees hitting the underside and ate three bowls without breathing while a five-foot-two woman with Paige's eyes watched me from across the counter with her arms folded.
"He eats," she'd said to Paige.
"He eats."
"Good. Too skinny."
I'm not skinny. I'm six four and two twenty. But arguing with Mama Thomas is arguing with the weather. Pointless and mildly dangerous.
"Also," Paige says, mopping egg with her toast. "Eli called yesterday about the barley. First batch is ready for the distillery in April. He wants your input on the malt profile."
"My input."
"You grew it, Aiden."
"We grew it."
"Sure, but you dropped every tree that was standing on it. Eli respects that."
Eli respects timber. Eli also bought me a beer at Sal's last month and sat in silence for twenty minutes before saying, "You're alright, Harrison." Coming from Eli Summers, that's a marriage proposal.
Paige finishes eating. Leans back. Studies me.
"You've got a look," she says.
"I don't have a look."
"You've got the look you get when you're about to say something that costs you." She sets her mug down. "Four in the morning, you said. Thinking."
"Yeah."
"About?"
I get up. Clear the plates. This isn't stalling. This is just what needs to happen before the other thing happens.
"Aiden."
"Doing dishes."
"The dishes can wait."
"Your bacon grease gets in that cast iron, you'll?—"
"Aiden Harrison." She's standing. Arms crossed. The flannel falls off one shoulder. "Talk to me."
I dry my hands. Reach for the shelf above the stove where the carvings sit. The walnut bowl. The spoon. The bird with the half-turned wings.
And behind them, a small box I put there three weeks ago.
My hand's shaking. First time since the day she bled in the field and I couldn't hold tweezers steady.
"Paige."
Her arms uncross. Her eyes track the box.
