Page 73 of Love Felt Like This

Ava sits in my lap while Nana’s box TV shimmers an old sitcom back at us. She’s sobbing into my neck, and no amount of canned audience laughter is working.

There’s a knock at the door.

I jump. Even Ava stops crying. When she sniffles, I think I do too. I drag my palm down my face and beard before cracking open the door.

Beverly stands on the floral welcome mat in fuzzy socks tucked into even fuzzier slippers. She’s wearing that purple faux fur coat that goes down to her knees. Corduroy bell-bottom pants. A mismatched, baggy striped T-shirt.

Her eyes widen at the sight of me with messy hair, ruddy cheeks, and Ava perched on my hip in teddy bear footie pajamas.

“You look like a mess,” Beverly says.

“What’s going on?”

She gestures with two mugs of coffee. A brown bag is balanced in the crook of her arm. Her laptop is held precariously between her biceps and chest.

“Figure we’re all awake anyway,” she says.

“Did we wake you up? I’m sorry, she’s a light sleeper so—”

“No, no, no,” Beverly says on a laugh. “I was already awake. But if you aren’t sleeping either…” She shrugs with a small smile. “We can all hang out together.”

I exchange a look with Ava. It almost feels like she’s asking me, Are we really hanging out at this hour?

I agree. But Beverly’s right: We’re not sleeping anyway.

I step aside to allow Beverly in and close the door behind her. When she walks past, I notice she still smells like grapefruit despite looking a little disheveled herself. Is that just her natural scent, regardless of whether she’s showered?

Beverly sets the two steaming mugs on the kitchenette counter. One might have been a class project, with cracked ceramic edges and messy glaze. The other has a roller coaster and a bee logo—a theme park souvenir. She slides the brown bag down her forearm and opens it to reveal a small Tupperware container of steaming pancakes. They’re already precut into smaller pieces.

“A late-night snack,” she explains.

Ava, with her pink tear-streaked cheeks and runny nose, perks up.

“You didn’t have to do this,” I say.

Beverly shrugs again but doesn’t respond. The pancakes permeate the room with smells of syrup and buttery vanilla. Ava immediately darts her palm out toward the Tupperware.

Quietly, we watch my daughter eat, shoving piece after torn piece of pancake into her mouth, and take a couple for ourselves as well. Maybe it’s not the healthiest late-night snack, but for now, Ava seems happy.

Beverly cuts the silence with a whisper. “Thanks for playing guitar with Rob. That meant a lot to him.”

“I said I would. He’s a good kid with a passion for music. I like him.”

The corner of Beverly’s mouth tips into a smile, sending tiny sparks skittering down to my fingers, pulsing against my thigh.

I clear my throat. “So…why are you up?”

Beverly sighs, taking a seat on the couch and then propping open her laptop on her knees. “I was working. Is it all right if I continue working here, actually?”

The sparks tickle down my fingers again.

Does she ever stop?

“Go for it,” I say. “What’s on the agenda?”

“A script.”

“Episode one?” I ask.