Chapter 12
Grief, Properly Punctuated
I wake to the sound of music, something classical, floating in from the central part of the house. Gavin must be back. I splash water on my face, pinch my cheeks for color, and go looking for him.
I pause in the dining room. A grid of art takes up an entire wall. Each piece is a simple antique card about eight inches tall, featuring a single ornate character, hand-painted in bold black brushstrokes. I study the symbols, their shapes elegant but indecipherable. They remind me of something I can’t quite put my finger on.
Gavin steps up next to me but says nothing.
“What language is this?” I ask.
“Sanskrit. Mom collected them on a trip to India and framed them for me when I needed art for this wall.”
I study the brushstrokes again. “Do you know what they say?”
“Not all of them.”
I glance at him, but he’s still facing the wall. Whatever’s behind that answer, he’s clearly not wanting to talk about it.
After a beat, he clears his throat. “Want to see the kitchen?”
Gavin’s kitchen is beautiful in the way some people are beautiful without trying.
The thick granite countertops are a soft ash-veined white, cool to the touch. A wall of walnut cabinets stretches along one side, hiding smart storage, and there’s an eight-burner professional Viking range that looks like it could fuel a spaceship.
I pull open a few drawers. Everything is pristine. The knives—glistening Wüsthofs—are arranged like artifacts.
There’s no clutter. No flour dust. No trace of anyone ever rushing through a weeknight dinner or improvising a sauce.
It’s the kind of kitchen designed for someone who wants to feel like they would cook, but probably never does.
“It might not be up to your standards,” he says.
“You do realize I lived in a one-bedroom apartment smaller than this kitchen?”
“Didn’t know that,” he frowns.
There’s a pause. I think he feels as awkward as I do.
I open the fridge and wince. It’s practically empty. “Eat much?”
“I meant to grocery shop.”
He gestures to a small table near the window. We sit. He pours water. I pull out my notebook, but I hesitate before flipping it open.
“Just dinners, right? That’s what I’m here for?”
He nods. “Dinners only. Mostly when Olivia is here. I tend to eat on the go when she’s not around, and I’m not a breakfast person.”
“You eat something, though.”
“Coffee.”
“And?”
“Cream. That’s dairy. That counts, right?”
I smile despite myself. “Sure. If you’re trying to build muscle tone in your ... spleen.”
“Olivia has mentioned I could stand to tone up. She may have used the term ‘six-pack abs.’”
“Do you want six-pack abs?”
“What makes you think I don’t already have them?” he says, the corner of his mouth lifting.
I reflexively look down, then quickly force my eyes back up, but not fast enough to miss the way his T-shirt clings when he leans back. I’m guessing there’s a six-pack situation happening under there, and unfortunately, I’ve noticed.
“Seriously, unless all I have to do is drink a six-pack to get them, then no, I don’t care.”
I laugh before I can stop myself. A real laugh, and I’m surprised how good it feels.
He merely lifts his glass and takes a sip, his eyes still on me. There’s something unreadable in his expression.
“Any food preferences?”
“I’m not vegan. I’m not keto. Definitely not raw.” He shrugs. “Honestly, I’m not picky about food, but I’m also not naturally attracted to salad as a meal.”
“You Jones boys. Carnivores. Olivia said something about cholesterol and getting healthier?”
“Olivia has ... strong opinions.”
“Right.”
I pretend to write something down to avoid his eyes. I wonder if he’s cataloging my flaws. My uneven eyes. My barely there eyelashes. My not-Olivia-ness.
“You don’t have to overdo it,” he says, voice low. “I know this situation isn’t exactly ideal for you. And, I don’t expect you to be cheerful for me. Whatever you need to feel, please feel.”
I blink. The directness surprises me.
“No one’s ever told me that before.”
He tilts his head. “Really?”
“Yeah, I’ve felt moments that remind me of when my parents died. I mean, it’s a different kind of loss and letting go, but still, most people like other people’s grief packaged neatly. Punctuated with jokes, and thank you cards for their crappy casseroles.”
“Not necessary,” he says, then hesitates. “Are you handling all of this okay?”
I look down at the notebook still open in front of me.
“Not really,” I say. “But I’m here. And I want to be. So that has to count for something.”
He nods slowly, then leans back in his chair.
His gaze lingers on me a second longer than I expect. It’s steady, unblinking. Not invasive, just... focused. Like he’s actually paying attention.
I look away before I start reading into things that aren’t there.
The silence that follows isn’t strained. It stretches, then settles.
For the first time since I arrived, I don’t feel like I have to perform. I don’t have to apologize for how I look or what I’m feeling or how slowly I’m stitching myself back together.
We sit like that for a while. Not as strangers, exactly. But not as anything else yet.
Just two people in a kitchen, feeling a lot, but not saying all of it.
And for now, that’s enough.