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When dinner concludes, Luke stands, gathering the plates and proceeding to the sink without a word.

“I think I’ll go rest on the couch a bit,” Donna says, “since it looks like you have this.”

I watch her go, my stomach dropping. I wanted to believe she wasn't actually as sick as she said—perhaps exaggerating the situation to make sure I didn’t no-show, which I might have—but the Donna I knew was tireless, always rushing off with a casserole for someone in need, or a bag of clothes to donate to Goodwill. This Donna needs to rest after a meal and walks slowly as she goes. She really is going to die.

Reluctantly, I follow Luke into the kitchen. He’s standing at the sink, scrubbing a pan. Only Luke could make doing the dishes sexy. Only Luke could take an action as mundane as scrubbing a pan and make you realize how much more graceful you could be doing it than you ever realized.

“How much do you know about her cancer?” I ask, grabbing a dish towel and taking the pan to dry it.

He frowns. Being civil to me requires an effort he finds nearly impossible. “Not all that much. I looked it up online—she’s probably got a year at most and that’s with chemo, which she’s refusing.”

No. No. There’s got to be a way to throw money at this, to extend her life until a better treatment is available. “I’m sure they’re doing studies. I’ll have someone check into it. Stanford might—”

He grips the counter. “That's not what she wants. She doesn’t want what we can buy for her. She doesn’t want you to fucking fix this. She just wants you here.”

“Sometimes people don’t want what’s good for them,” I snap.

He turns to stare at me, his eyes narrowing. “You really think you need to tell me that?” Luke understands all too well about wanting what’s not good for him.

I guess we both do.

We complete the rest of the dishes in silence before joining Donna in the family room. I take the seat on one side of her and Luke takes the other, sitting the way he does—his knees spread wide, arm resting along the back of the couch. He looks athletic, somehow, even at rest.

We watch one of those investigation shows where the lead character is always staring off meaningfully into the distance and saying something like, “Looks like this case just got a lot more complicated.”

Donna whispers to us, telling us about each character as if they’re real, as if they’re friends. Seven years ago, she had an entirely different future planned out. One that involved growing old beside her husband, watching her son marry me, giving her lots of grandkids to run around at her feet. Now she sits here alone every night, and she’s going to die.

She pats my knee at ten, and then Luke’s. “I’m off to bed, and I’m sure you two have better things to do than sit here with an old woman.”

She turns to head up the stairs, and I feel a fluttering panic in my chest at the idea of being down here alone with Luke. I jump to my feet, leaving him to stay behind and lock up.

In the safety of my darkened room, I listen for him as I sink into the mattress, slowly breathing in and out, memorizing the sounds he makes as he gets ready for bed: water running, the toilet flushing, the slap of his bare feet on the new hardwood floor.

His tread stops just outside my door, and my breath holds as if I’m praying for something. He walks away and I exhale.

I don’t know if I’m deeply relieved or deeply disappointed because, somehow, it feels like both.

THEN

JUNE 2013

I haven’t asked Donna for a single thing during the eighteen months I’ve spent under her roof, but one afternoon before the boys get home, when we’ve got a dinner guest coming and she’s still only making enough food for four of us, not six, I can’t stay silent.

“Luke’s hungry,” I tell her, my gaze focused hard on the potatoes I’m peeling as if what I’m saying doesn’t matter.

“What’s that?” she asks, distractedly, peering into a cookbook.

“Luke’s hungry. He’s a lot bigger than everyone else. He needs more food.”

She glances up, blinking rapidly, slow to understand my meaning. “I’m sure he’d say something.”

I don’t know if I want to laugh or cry. Of course he’s not going to fucking say anything, Donna. He’s your guest. What’s he going to say?

I straighten, setting the paring knife down to face her. “No. He wouldn’t.”

She studies me for a moment while I silently will her to see the situation as it is, not how she wishes it was.

She bites her lip. “I don’t know how the pastor will feel about that. I’ll need more money for the food budget.”