Josie
Forty-five
I reach for my mascara and make a few final adjustments before stepping back from the counter in the bathroom. While I’m maintaining a very casual outlook about anything this dinner might represent beyond an opportunity to eat baked chicken nuggets, I’m going to look fantastic while I do it.
The woman staring back at me in the mirror still looks tired. There isn’t much I can do about that. But she also looks polished, put together, and ready to face whatever tonight brings. That will have to be enough.
I gather my things, do one final glance around to make sure I haven’t forgotten anything, and grab my keys from the hook beside the door.
For a moment, my hand lingers on the knob.
A couple months ago, showing up for dinner at Alex’s house wouldn’t have required this much thought.
I would have walked through the front door and stolen something from his refrigerator to snack on while Eloise narrated her entire day.
Pretty sure there will be a lot of narration from Eloise this evening, but the rest I’m less clear on how to navigate.
The Creamery sits only a few minutes off my route, which makes stopping there easy.
Inside, the display case is crowded with tubs of ice cream in every shade imaginable, but I don’t bother pretending to browse.
I promised Eloise strawberry, and after everything that child has been through, I can at least show up with the right dessert.
The girl behind the counter recognizes me, smiles, and reaches for a pint container before I even finish asking.
I watch her pack the strawberry and seal the lid, my purse tucked under my arm while the line behind me grows by two people.
This should be simple. Yet I’m standing in the middle of the Creamery, my mind racing as if the decision between one pint and two requires serious strategic planning.
Apparently, this is what my life has become.
“Actually,” I say before the girl rings me up, “can I get a turtle chocolate too?”
She gives me an easy smile and turns back to the freezer case. Someone might want chocolate. Zara might. Alex might. Eloise might decide strawberry was her favorite five minutes ago but chocolate is her favorite now, because she’s seven and consistency is optional at that age.
You are ridiculous. I don’t know when it became so hard for me to be honest with myself.
The truth is, I don’t know who will be at the house tonight.
Eloise made the invitation sound like the most natural thing in the world, but children’s invitations don’t always account for adult tension, unresolved conversations, or the possibility that someone else has plans I don’t know about.
Zara said it would be fine. I want to believe her, but wanting something doesn’t make it true, and buying extra ice cream is a tangible way I can attempt to prepare for every version of the evening before I get there.
The cashier slides both pints into a small paper bag, and I pay while keeping my eyes on the terminal instead of the clock above the counter.
I could leave immediately. I should leave immediately.
Instead, I take a napkin I don’t need, adjust the strap of my purse, and spend a ridiculous amount of time making sure the bag is folded neatly at the top.
It buys me maybe thirty seconds, which is pathetic, but those thirty seconds are mine.
Then I’m back in the driver’s seat, the paper bag from the Creamery sitting on the passenger seat beside me, the pints tucked safely inside while I guide the truck along the winding road toward Eloise’s house.
When I reach the turnoff toward their neighborhood, I realize I’ve already started building an escape route. If things get uncomfortable, I can leave.
The realization comes with embarrassing ease.
Black Bear Winery is practically built on emergencies.
A broken irrigation line. A pump failure.
Equipment trouble. A vineyard manager’s phone can ring at almost any hour with a legitimate problem requiring immediate attention.
Now, actually, I haven’t gotten a work call like that in weeks, and I haven’t missed it.
But I can make the excuse and nobody would question it.
I pull into Alex’s driveway, and the house looks the same as it always has, warm and familiar, with Eloise’s bike tipped over near the side of the garage and one of her bright sidewalk chalk masterpieces fading across the concrete.
I slow before I reach my usual spot, my gaze moving automatically toward the place where Alex normally parks. His vehicle isn’t there.
Of course he isn’t here. The second he found out I was coming, the hospital probably called, or he remembered some chart he needed to finish, or he decided staying away was easier than facing whatever awkwardness I brought with me.
I hate how quickly my mind supplies explanations that all lead to the same place.
He found a reason not to be here. Maybe it was legitimate.
Maybe he stayed late because patients needed him, and I’m being unfair by turning his job into something personal.
But maybe he didn’t come home because dinner with me sounded about as appealing as a root canal performed without anesthetic.
I tell myself I’m once again being ridiculous, but the longer I sit there, the more possible it feels.
I grab the Creamery bag from the passenger seat, careful to keep it upright, and push open the truck door.
The late-day heat rolls over me as I step onto the driveway, carrying the smell of dry grass, warm pavement, and someone cooking inside the house.
I smooth my free hand down the front of my shirt, close the door with my hip, and take one steadying breath while I remind myself that I’ve survived far worse than an uncomfortable dinner.
I start toward the front walk, arranging my expression into something bright enough to pass inspection. It isn’t exactly natural, but it will hold. I lift the bag slightly in one hand, as if dessert alone can explain why I’m here, and force myself to keep walking toward the house.
I’m halfway up the front walk when the door swings open and Eloise appears, all bright eyes and bare feet, with her hair slipping loose from whatever style someone attempted earlier.
For one suspended second, she looks at me as if she wasn’t entirely sure I’d come, and then her whole face lights up.
The welcome hits me with more force than I’m prepared for, especially after the empty space in the driveway.
“Josie!” she calls, already launching herself off the porch before I can remind her not to run.
I barely have time to shift my weight before she reaches me. She throws her arms around my waist, squeezing with the kind of fierce affection only a child can give. I press my free hand to her back and hold her for a moment, breathing in the faint scent of shampoo and sunshine.
“You came,” she says, tipping her head back to look at me.
“I said I would.” I smooth a piece of hair away from her cheek, careful not to bump her with the bag. “And I take dessert commitments very seriously.”
Her gaze moves immediately to my hand. “Is that the ice cream?”
“It is.” I lift the bag just enough for her to inspect it, because pretending there’s any mystery here would insult both of us. “But only for people who eat dinner first.”
“I eat dinner all the time.” Eloise reaches for the folded top of the bag, and then stops herself with obvious effort. “Did you get strawberry?”
“I did.”
She beams, pleased with herself, with me, with the entire concept of ice cream.
“One pint of strawberry, as requested.”
“That’s my favorite,” she announces, as if she hasn’t told me this at least three times already. Then she leans closer, opening the bag. “What’s the other one?”
“Turtle chocolate.” I tuck the bag slightly higher against my side before she can get too enthusiastic and send both pints rolling across the porch. “Just in case someone wants chocolate.”
“Oh good.” Eloise nods. “I like chocolate too.”
“Funny how that works,” I murmur, following as she starts back toward the house.
She reaches behind her, and when her small hand finds mine, I let her take it. The gesture is casual for her, probably automatic, but it steadies something in me as we cross the porch together.
Eloise pulls me through the front door, and I step inside with the Creamery bag still cold against my palm.
Zara appears from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a dish towel, and her face softens when she sees me. “There you are,” she says. “Eloise has been checking the window every three minutes.”
“I was not,” Eloise says, still holding my hand as she leans against my side.
I lift the bag slightly as I follow Eloise farther inside. “I brought strawberry, as ordered, and turtle chocolate as insurance.”
“Excellent planning,” Zara says, reaching for the bag. “Around here, chocolate is never a mistake.”
For a moment, the evening feels manageable. Zara takes the ice cream, and Eloise starts explaining how they grind the chicken, put it into balls, smash them, and then freeze them, and finally coat them with egg, bread crumbs, and smashed corn flakes. I’m amazed at her culinary skills.
I’ve almost convinced myself that I’ll just be here without Alex when movement behind Zara catches my eye.
Alex comes in through the side entrance, keys in hand, and relief moves through me before I can stop it, quick and traitorous, softening the disappointment I spent the drive pretending didn’t matter.
He is here. He didn’t avoid dinner or disappear into the hospital or decide the evening would be easier without me.
For half a breath, everything inside me reaches toward that simple fact.
Then he sees me.
Surprise flashes across his face, followed by something warmer, more urgent, and he starts toward me as if the distance between us is a problem he intends to solve immediately.
Alex gets halfway across the room before he falters. His gaze flicks from me to Eloise, and then toward Zara, and whatever he was about to do disappears behind caution.
He stops a few feet away, close enough that I can see the day on him—the faint crease in his shirt, the tiredness around his eyes, the careful control settling over his features. “What brings you here?” he asks.
I look at him, and then at Eloise, who is still tucked against me. For a second, I’m too thrown to answer. Eloise invited me. Zara welcomed me. I’m standing in his kitchen, and Alex is looking at me like my presence is a surprise he doesn’t know how to handle.