Chapter 6
Blending
Hildy
Whispering jolts me awake.
Not arguing, not yelling. Not the usual morning chaos of my roommates crashing through the apartment. This is deliberate—someone trying desperately not to be heard.
I freeze, heart hammering against my ribs, as my brain cycles through every possible threat. Home invasion. Fire. Child Protective Services. Then consciousness floods back, and I remember exactly where I am and what's at stake.
I lunge out of bed, yanking on a cardigan, jamming my feet into slippers that weren't mine yesterday but are now, all while straining to catch Lucy's voice. It's pitched high with anxiety, each word taut as a wire.
A man answers—that accent slicing through my defenses even now, even here, even when I need every ounce of clarity I can muster. His voice wraps around my spine, unwelcome and impossible to ignore.
The list of calls I need to make today flashes through my mind like emergency signals: pediatricians, orthopedists, daycare waitlists that slammed shut months ago, insurance portals that will fight me at every turn.
I wrench open my door. Lucy stands in the hallway with Lenzin, her small body rigid with tension.
She's wearing a Brooklyn Bears T-shirt that is clearly his. It hangs almost to her ankles, her cast peeking out underneath it. She's holding a folded towel and two cheese sticks, her chin trembling with the effort not to cry.
“Good morning, Lucy,” I say softly, my throat tightening
She looks at me and blurts it out. “I had an accident.”
There it is, my first failing.
“That’s all right,” I say immediately, stepping closer so she knows I mean it. “I should have woken you up, but you looked so peaceful and comfortable sleeping.”
Her eyes fill anyway. Not crying yet. Holding it back. I feel that too; I could burst with her.
“Would you like to come sleep in my room for a bit?” I ask. “We can take care of everything else later.” She nods, relief hitting fast.
“She was transporting her bedding upstairs when I was coming down,” Lenzin says, right in front of her, like this is simply a fact to be noted.
“Sheets, blanket, pillowcase.” She looks up at him and he smiles softly down at her.
“With considerable determination and strength of a person three times her size, one-armed, I might add.”
“They were heavy,” Lucy says quietly, already passing me and heading into my room.
“I told her it was not a problem,” he continues, still speaking where she can hear him. “That I have accidents as well.”
I stop and turn back to him, whispering. “You told her you peed the bed?”
“Yes,” he says without hesitation, obviously realizing how ridiculous it sounds, yet he continues. “I explained that it happens when one is fatigued, especially when circumstances change.” A pause. “The body does not always adjust immediately.”
I blink once. Then twice. “You did not have to do that.”
“I did,” he replies evenly. “Shame would have been unnecessary and destructive.” He lowers his voice further. “She was about to cry.”
“Thank you,” I say, already turning toward my room to assess the damage.
“Lucy and I started the wash,” he adds. “The mattress protector functioned as intended. There is no harm.”
I stop short. “There was a mattress protector on the bed?” I ask, hopeful I didn’t imagine that.
“Yes,” he says. “I would deduce that it was Claudia’s doing.”
I chuckle, realizing this is the moment when holding back is pointless. “Thank you,” I call over my shoulder. “I appreciate your help.”
“It’s no trouble at all,” Lenzin replies, his voice steady, followed by a soft laugh. “I’d choose this over some of the antics my previous roommates have put me through.”
“I’m not sure I want to hear those stories,” I admit, stepping away while his laughter lingers in the air behind me.
Inside the room, Lucy stands at the foot of the bed, clutching two empty cheese stick wrappers.
“Are you hungry?” I ask, and she lifts one shoulder, uncertainty flickering in her eyes. “You slept right through dinner. If that were me, my stomach would be growling.”
She presses her small hand against her belly. “I think it is.”
“Then let’s get cleaned up and dressed,” I say softly. “You and I can whip up some breakfast together.”
She yawns, nodding but still rooted in place. “Okay.”
“Still feeling tired?” I ask, settling on the edge of the bed.
She nods slowly. “I had a bad dream, Hildy.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” I say, patting the mattress beside me. “Do you want to talk about it?”
She shakes her head, her gaze fixed on the oversized shirt draping her frame. “Uh uh.”
I wish I could promise her safety, permanence, and certainty. But she needs more than just words; she needs tangible proof.
I slide off the bed and gently tap the nose of the bear resting on her belly. “Let’s go feed that bear.”
Her smile blooms, radiant and warm. “Okay.”
As we step into the kitchen, the atmosphere has settled, transforming the space into one of calm normalcy.
Faulker and Hank are already immersed in their morning rituals, moving with a practiced ease.
Drawers slide open and shut in a rhythmic cadence, creating a soothing backdrop.
The absence of urgency feels like a balm for my frayed nerves, a welcome stability for Lucy.
Lucy carefully climbs onto a stool, using her left arm to navigate around the cast, and nestles herself comfortably.
Her eyes are wide, taking in the scene with an intense curiosity.
Faulker stands at the stove, cracking eggs into a pan with a precision that speaks to his focus.
There’s no music playing, no distractions—just the quiet hum of concentration.
He sprinkles salt over the eggs, nothing more, while toast pops up from the toaster, golden and plain, untouched by butter or jam.
A protein shake sits patiently beside his plate, waiting.
Hank, on the other hand, leans casually against the island, stirring peanut butter into a bowl of oatmeal. The banana slices are meticulously arranged, as if they’re part of some culinary art project.
“You want some?” Hank asks, lifting the bowl toward Lucy.
She studies it, weighing her options, before shaking her head. “No.”
“Fair enough,” he replies, unfazed, continuing his task with an easy grin.
Faulker sets his plate down and finally meets her gaze. “We all need to eat to fuel our bodies,” he states calmly, not phrasing it as a question. “But you should choose something suitable for your size.”
Lucy contemplates this. “What is suitable?” she asks.
“Eggs. Yogurt. Fruit,” he responds. “Something that won’t betray you in twenty minutes.”
She nods, instantly persuaded. He cracks three more eggs into the pan. “How do you ladies prefer your eggs?”
Lucy glances at me, confusion flickering across her face, prompting me to clarify. “Yolks or no yolks?”
Still uncertain, she hesitates. Hank chimes in. “Should they look like the sun, or be scrambled and fluffy?”
“I’ve never had eggs,” Lucy admits, then turns to Faulker. “What do you like?”
“Scrambled,” he replies. “With a bit of cottage cheese for extra protein.”
She shifts her attention to Hank. “Do you like eggs?”
“I do,” he says cheerfully. “Sunny side up. You dip toast in the yolk.”
She looks back at me. “And you?”
“There are too many ways to cook eggs,” I confess. “I can’t pick just one.”
“Lucy,” Faulker says from the stove, his tone soft and gentle, “how about you try them two ways today, and perhaps two more while Hank and I are away for work over the next four mornings? You can tell us your favorite when we get back.”
“You’re going away?” she asks, her brow furrowing.
“Our job is to play hockey,” he reminds her, cracking another egg with precision.
“On the ice,” she confirms, recalling a conversation she had with Deacon when we arrived, and Faulker, likely while they did laundry together.
“That’s right.”
He slides a plate in front of her, showcasing two eggs prepared differently, then places two forks beside it. “Today, you’ll try my game-day eggs, for protein and strength, and Hank’s dippy eggs, for fun and mess-making.”
“Four mornings?” she asks, her eyes widening.
“Yep,” Hank confirms. “You girls get the whole place to yourselves.”
She gazes at the plate but doesn’t reach for it yet. “This is game day?”
“Yes,” Hank replies proudly. “A big one.”
“All games are important,” Faulker adds, taking a sip of his shake.
Lucy turns to him, curiosity shining in her eyes. “Do you ever get scared?”
He pauses for a moment, then shakes his head. “We become precise.”
She seems to absorb that, though I’m not sure she fully grasps its meaning.
“Why don’t you both eat the same thing?” she inquires of Hank.
“We all have our own routines,” Hank answers. “Keeps the universe in line.”
She looks back at Faulker. “Is that true?”
“Routine reduces variables,” he explains. “Variables lead to mistakes.”
Lucy nods, then watches me take a bite. She mirrors my actions, dipping her toast, taking a bite, and breaking into a smile.
They finish quickly. When Faulker stands to rinse his plate, Lucy starts to follow suit, then catches herself and sits again. She watches to see if I’m taking my time and follows suit.
Hank notices the cast and crouches in front of her, animated.
“You know,” he says, “I broke my arm once.”
Lucy’s eyes widen. “How?”
“Four-wheeler accident,” he says solemnly. “Poor judgment. Excellent story. Everyone signed my cast.”
“Everyone?” she asks.
“My whole family,” he confirms.
She studies her cast. “Did it hurt?”
“The accident, yes,” Hank says honestly. “But the signatures helped.”
She turns to me first. “Can you sign mine?”
There’s an order, and I’m first, and I make a vow to stay there, for her, for Lucy. “Yes. Of course.”
Then Hank. “You, too.”
“Honored,” he says.
Then she looks at Faulker and waits a beat before asking, “Would you sign it?”
“If you would like me to, I’d like that,” he replies.
She nods. “After Hildy. Then you. Then Hank.”