Chapter Twenty-Six
Cal
They reorganized my kitchen.
I don’t know when they did it.
Becca arrived around eleven this morning and I was in my office with Rudi going over specifics of the Volkov operation until four.
Gio was out with Max and Becca for the day.
And at some point during those few hours, the coffee station got rearranged, the pantry got alphabetized—I didn’t know I had enough items in the pantry to warrant alphabetization—and there is now a plant on the island behind the sink that I have no memory of anyone bringing into this apartment.
I didn’t know any of this happened last night when Max crawled into bed after spending the evening with Becca laughing and eating Chinese food until two in the morning.
“Where did the plant come from?” I eye Max from across the kitchen.
“Becca found it.” Max is looking out the windows at the river.
She’s in an old Boston University sweatshirt that I assume Becca brought with the rest of Max’s clothes. Her hair is up in a high ponytail and she’s wearing jeans that fit her in a way I am trying to ignore for the structural health of my composure.
“Apparently there’s a little farmer’s market three blocks south. She went at six this morning while Gio thought she was still asleep.”
“Gio is going to have a problem with that.”
“Gio already had a problem with that. Becca told him she moves like a ghost when she wants to, and he should work on his observational skills.” She takes a sip of the coffee.
“She’s not kidding. She used to sneak ice cream into my house at midnight when we were at the end of a bad week. I never once heard her on the stairs.”
I look at the plant. It’s small, something with trailing green leaves, already making the white kitchen look less like a showroom and warmer—lived in, loved.
“She’s leaving this morning,” Max says, without turning from the window.
“I know.”
“She doesn’t want to.” I watch her wrap both hands tighter around the mug as she continues, “And I don’t want her to. But she needs to get back and I can’t ask her to upend her life for—”
“You’re not asking her to do anything,” I say. “She chose to drive up and see you. I know it was just one night, but she’ll be back.”
Max is quiet for a moment.
“Bart will stay, at least, so that’s great news,” I try to find the good for her.
She laughs, startled, and finally turns from the window.
“Yes, God forbid we lose the dog.”
“He’s good company. He doesn’t argue with me.”
“You love it when I argue with you.”
“I do think it adds something interesting to the day,” I smile around the words, which are a more controlled version of what I’d like to say which is yes, I love it, I look forward to it every morning, it’s the best part of my day. “Becca.” I tip my head toward the hallway. “Does she—”
“She knows everything I know,” Max states, matter-of-factly. “Which is everything you’ve told me, and nothing more.” She meets my eyes. “She won’t say anything. She’s spent her whole life keeping my secrets. This one is just bigger than usual.”
I look at her for a moment.
The morning light is doing something to her hair and I wish I could stop time to absorb the moment for a little longer. I take a picture in my mind for a rainy day of the way the ponytail sits behind her tilting head and perfect cheeks.
“Okay.”
There’s nothing else to say. I have come to terms with this already.
When Max said Becca was coming, I didn’t mention that I’d called her first. Or that I’d had someone making sure Max still had a safe person back home while she was here—someone keeping a quiet eye on Becca’s building, on her routine. Protective, not intrusive. I know the difference.
I know Becca Montgomery well enough now to know she won’t say anything. More importantly, I know she loves Max the way you love someone whose whole story you’ve been watching. That’s enough for me.
The reality is Becca knowing the truth doesn’t put anyone but Becca in danger. And she’s only here temporarily.
That danger, therefore, is temporary, I reconcile.
“You made my coffee.” I pause, picking up the mug she left on the counter.
It tastes right, just the way I like it, sweet and dark, and it’s another warm, lived-in feeling hanging around in the air of the kitchen.
“You've made mine since I’ve been here with syrups you bought before I even showed up.” She raises her eyebrows. “Consider us even.”
I drink the coffee and don’t say anything else about it because there isn’t anything to say that wouldn’t be more than I’m currently able to say standing in a kitchen at seven in the morning with a plant on the island and her dog asleep on the leather couch.
Some things you hold. You just hold them and let them sit there and be true.
And there is nothing truer than the fact that Max—with her plant and her dog—belongs here.
With me.