Page 52 of His Holy Chaos

I love both, but the townhouse has my heart.

By the time I make it downstairs, Ford has Angel in her high chair and there's a smoothie on the counter that I didn't ask for. Green. Suspicious.

"Drink it."

"What's in it?"

"Things that are good for you."

"That's not an answer."

"Spinach, banana, protein powder, almond butter."

I take a sip. It's actually good, which annoys me.

The front door opens at six on the dot, and Martha sweeps in. She's wearing a lavender cardigan with embroidered daisies on it and carrying two canvas bags stuffed with what appears to be enough groceries to feed a village.

"My baby!" she coos, and scoops Angel up, pressing kisses all over her fat cheeks. Angel shrieks with delight, and Martha rocks her back and forth, murmuring in this singsong voice.

Then she turns to me.

"Jude. You look thin. Are you eating?"

"Martha, I literally just had a smoothie!"

"A smoothie is not food. Sit down." She deposits Angel back in the high chair and starts unpacking the bags. Fresh bread, eggs, tomatoes, herbs I can't identify, something wrapped in butcher paper. "Ford, you're letting this boy waste away."

"He's been here twelve hours, Mom."

"Twelve hours is enough to feed someone a proper meal." She's already cracking eggs into a bowl, and I watch her move through Ford's kitchen like she built it herself. Maybe she did. She knows where everything is without looking. The whisk in the third drawer, the olive oil behind the vinegar, the cast-iron skillet hanging from the rack above the island.

Ford told her about us weeks ago. He said her reaction was to squeal with joy and announce, "The best singer in the choir!" totally ignoring that Ford can sing as well.

"Can I help?" I ask, and she looks at me like I've just proposed.

"Oh, honey. Yes. Come here. Chop these tomatoes."

So I chop tomatoes while Martha makes what turns out to be a shakshuka, a really good one. Ford sits at the kitchen table with Angel on his lap, reading the news on his tablet, and the whole scene is so domestic that I should be crawling out of my skin. I should be running for the door, because this is the exact kind of warmth I've been afraid of. The kind that makes you need it. The kind that, when it's taken away, leaves you worse than you were before.

Instead I'm dicing onions and listening to Martha tell me about the woman at her book club who's having an affair with her dentist.

"It's always the dentist," I say, and Martha laughs so hard she has to put down her wooden spoon.

"I like him," she says to Ford, pointing at me with the spoon. "Can you sing something, honey, please?"

Ford looks at me over his tablet. "Don't encourage him."

"I will encourage whoever I want. You won't tell me what to do, not now, not ever."

I start singing "Amazing Grace." It almost makes Martha melt, just as planned.

After breakfast, Ford says he has to catch up with some work before choir practice, so he disappears into his study. I'm left with Martha and Angel.

Martha looks at me. Angel looks at me.

"So," I say. "What do we do now?"

Martha gives me a smirk. Similar to the ones Ford loves to give me. I can see where he got it from.