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You two awake?It was from Doc.
Yep.You coming over?
He responded after a minute or so.Once we get everybody fed.
“Taav?”
He came back into the doorway. “Yeah?”
“Can you make enough for Doc and Ward? Whatever you’re making?”
“Sure. It’s just French toast. Are they coming for breakfast?”
“Maybe. Lemme check.”
Do you want to eat here? Taavi’s making French toast.Then I sent another.I have that weird not egg shit. Ward can’t eat eggs, and I bake for him often enough that I generally kept his weird egg substitute crap in the fridge.
Another minute or so before Doc replied.Sure! See you in fifteen?
I sent a thumb’s up.
“Is that okay?” I asked Taavi. “There’s that bottled not-egg shit for Ward.”
“Of course. It’s not fancy French toast, but there’s fruit to put on top.” He turned to go back into the kitchen.
“Taav?”
He paused, looking back over his shoulder. “Yeah?”
“Thank you.”
He smiled. “Of course. I’m happy to.”
Ward, Doc, and Jackson came by shortly after that, Doc with an armload of marigolds, Jackson carrying a colorful woven blanket, and Ward with a box of candles and patterned bowls.
Among the things Taavi had brought from his apartment was a photograph of his folks from when his mom was pregnant, her hands holding her round belly, keeping the infant inside safe and secure. His father stood behind her in the picture, one hand on her shoulder, his affection for her clear on his face.
It was obvious how much they loved each other and how much they clearly wanted Taavi—wanted to have a family.
To be forced to give that up—to sacrifice their dream so that Taavi could grow up in the US… Fuck. I couldn’t imagine the kind of pain they must have put themselves through to make sure their son had a better life.
In theory.
It also pissed me off that the better life they’d sacrificed for was probably not what they’d dreamed. That he’d spent his whole life being pushed aside or avoided because of who he was. But I didn’t want to spend today angry—especially because I wanted this for Taavi, and he didn’t deserve to have to put up with me being a crotchety asshole.
Weirdly, having Doc, Ward, and Jackson in my apartment was actually helping.
Normally, I fucking hate people. I hate having to be social, and I hate having to be polite. But these were my people—I was comfortable staying half-prone on the couch while Ward cut marigold stems and arranged them in drinking glasses, Doc helped Taavi with the French toast, and Jackson painstakingly smoothed out the tablecloth and set out candles and bowls on it.
“How do you know where everything goes?” I asked him from my spot on the couch.
“Mybisabuelois telling me,” he replied, his expression the kind of serious that only kids get when they’re doing something seemingly simple.
“Your what?” I asked him.
He looked over at me. “Mybisabuelo. Great-grandfather.”
Right. Because Jackson was a death-witch. I kept forgetting that because every timeIsaw the kid, he seemed to be perfectly normal. But no. He could see dead people and kill you with his bare hands if he got worked up. According to Ward, Jackson had also basically kept Doc alive long enough to get him to the hospital after he’d been shot.
