Chapter 6 #3
The bread had cooled enough that tearing a piece produced a crisp fracture in the crust. I thought of my parents’ kitchen in Yakima, Joanne setting aside small bruised apples for applesauce, Gene tallying harvest yields long after the sun went down and the light was too dim to read the ledger.
I thought of Kate on her stairwell landing that morning, texting yes without a single conditional clause attached.
“Now, I still want to fix it,” I said. “Except I know I can’t. And I know that if you let me be part of this, I have to learn something else.”
Kate looked down. “What’s that?”
“How to sit right here when there’s nothing useful I can do.”
She didn’t say that was enough. That would have been too simple. But her shoulders dropped.
We finished dinner without ever entirely closing the conversation.
We talked about the Halcyon pilot, the terrible coffee shops around First Hill, and the time Marcus tried to bake bread without yeast and blamed the oven.
Kate ate another half-portion. When I insisted on packing up the leftovers for her to take home, she gave me a look until I held up both hands.
“No obligation,” I said.
“I know. Hand over the container.”
I found a glass Pyrex with a navy lid. Kate held it steady while I ladled in the pasta with a large wooden spoon. Her fingers brushed mine when she tried to snap the lid on a second too early. The contact lasted a second. This time, she wasn’t the only one who went still.
“Sorry,” I said.
“You don’t have to apologize for having hands.”
“Good rule of thumb.”
“Don’t get it tattooed.”
The smile returned to her lips, worn around the edges but real.
I set the container on the counter and started washing the dishes.
Kate offered to help. I handed her a dish towel, not because I needed a mug dried, but because standing in a kitchen with another person felt less awkward when both of you had something to do with your hands.
“Can I ask you something without it sounding like a performance review?” she asked, drying the rim of a plate.
“You can try.”
“Does your family know about me?”
“No.”
“Not even your mom, who audits flour?”
“Not even her.”
Kate nodded, twisting the dish towel between her fingers.
“My mom just knows I’m busy,” she said. “That’s her favorite version of my life.”
“Do you want to keep it this way for now? Just between us.”
“Yes.”
“Then that’s what we do.”
“And if you change your mind, you tell me before turning it into a family discussion.”
“I will.”
Kate set the plate in the drying rack. The towel bunched under her palm.
“I shouldn’t have to ask you for that.”
“No. But asking doesn’t make it any less valid.”
She looked at me like she was ready to argue. Instead, she took a breath and nodded.
The oven clock read 9:22. The rain had tapered to an intermittent drip from the eaves. Kate pulled her boots back on, moving slowly on the entryway bench. I reached for her coat, holding it open. She slipped her arms through the sleeves and turned to face me, pulling the collar up beneath her chin.
“Thank you for dinner that wasn’t a date,” she said.
“Thank you for the backup bread.”
“Never call it that again.”
“Never.”
I walked her out to her car. The dock groaned behind the house, and a light from the far shore shimmered across the dark water. Kate set the Pyrex of pasta on the passenger seat, then turned back toward me.
“Tomorrow might be... strange,” she said.
“Probably.”
“I don’t want you preparing a speech.”
“I won’t.”
“Or looking at the ultrasound screen and making a decision for me.”
“I won’t.”
Kate pressed her lips together. She fished her keys out of her coat pocket and dropped them onto the wet gravel. She snatched them right up, as if the slip had never happened.
“What if there’s a heartbeat?” she asked.
It wasn’t a question any easy answer could handle. The cold mist had soaked through the cuffs of my sleeves. I stayed where I was, a single step away.
“Then we listen to it,” I said.
“And what if there isn’t?”
I swallowed, but nothing clever came up. I looked down at her hands, then up to her face.
“Then I’m with you too.”
Kate didn’t step closer. She didn’t need to. Her eyes dropped to my mouth, then rose back to mine. I felt the pull to reach out, to touch her cheek, to ask for a kiss, to turn all this fear into something familiar. I didn’t.
“See you at eight-thirty,” she said.
“Eight-thirty.”
She climbed into the car and pulled the door shut. I waited until her headlights cut through the drizzle and she backed down the drive toward the road. Once her taillights disappeared through the trees, I headed back into the kitchen.
The house smelled of warm bread and tomato sauce.
On the table sat two water-ringed glasses and the rye crumbs Kate had scattered beside her plate.
I switched off the pendant light, checked the front door latch once, and kept my hand resting on the brass until the metal grew cold beneath my fingers.
I couldn’t build a checklist for the morning.
For the first time, I didn’t even try.