Chapter 9 #2
"Fine," I say, and Ivy squeals loud enough to wake the dead. "But I'm making pasta. And if Clarence has opinions about my cooking, he can keep them to himself."
Ivy launches herself at me, wrapping her arms around my waist. "Thank you thank you thank you! I'll go tell Gemma right now---"
"Okay," I say, because there's no stopping her when she's this excited. "But let her know it's just pasta. Nothing fancy."
"Okay!" She bounces toward the door, then stops and turns back. "Daddy? You should use the nice plates. The ones Grandma gave us."
"It's just pasta, Ivy."
"But Gemma's coming!" She says this like it explains everything. Like having Gemma at our table is worthy of Grandma's good china.
Maybe it is.
Gemma appears at six-thirty, holding a bottle of wine. "Ivy said you were making dinner?" She makes it a question. "I can leave if---"
"Stay." The word comes out too fast. Too eager. I try to recover. "I made enough pasta to feed the entire station. You'd be doing me a favor."
She smiles. That full-wattage sunshine smile that does stupid things to my pulse. "In that case."
She steps inside and the kitchen suddenly feels smaller.
She's wearing jeans and a soft grey sweater that falls off one shoulder, her hair still damp from a shower and falling in dark waves past her shoulders.
She smells like something clean and citrusy that makes me want to lean closer and figure out exactly what it is.
I don't lean closer.
I turn back to the stove and stir the sauce with more focus than pasta sauce has ever required in human history.
Dinner is chaos.
The good kind. The kind I'd forgotten existed.
Ivy talks non-stop about Dinosaur Day, her hands moving in enthusiastic arcs as she describes the glitter incident and the T-Rex handler duties. Gemma listens to every word, asking questions that make Ivy glow---real questions, not the polite adult kind that kids can tell are fake.
"And then Owen said that velociraptors were the BEST dinosaurs, but I told him that's scientifically inaccurate because T-Rex had a bite force of TWELVE THOUSAND pounds---"
"Twelve thousand?" Gemma's eyebrows go up. "That's incredible."
"Right?!" Ivy bounces in her seat. "And Gemma, did you know that some dinosaurs had FEATHERS?"
I watch them across the table. Gemma leans forward, chin propped on her hand, completely focused on my daughter's explanation of proto-feathers and evolutionary biology.
Her eyes crinkle at the corners when Ivy gets particularly animated.
She laughs---really laughs---when Ivy demonstrates a velociraptor hunting strategy using her fork and a meatball.
The kitchen sounds right. That's the only way I can describe it. The clatter of forks on plates, Ivy's excited chatter, Gemma's warm responses, the background hum of the dishwasher I started earlier. It sounds like something I thought I'd lost when Vanessa and I signed the divorce papers.
It sounds like home.
Halfway through the meal, Clarence appears.
I didn't invite him. I definitely didn't leave the door open. But there he is, jumping onto the fourth chair and settling in like he's been invited to a formal dinner party. He's only missing his bowtie.
"See?" Ivy points at the cat triumphantly, waving her fork. "Even Clarence wants Gemma to eat with us."
Gemma laughs, reaching over to scratch behind Clarence's ears. The cat leans into her touch, purring loud enough to rattle the windows, and shoots me a look that says: See? This is how you show affection, you emotionally constipated disaster.
I'm taking notes from a cat now. My life has become a sitcom.
After dinner, Gemma starts clearing plates before I can protest.
"You cooked," she says. "I clean. That's the deal."
We end up at the sink together, Ivy having abandoned us for her T-Rex and a nature documentary about the Cretaceous period. The dishwasher's still running from earlier, so we're stuck doing these by hand. Gemma washes. I dry.
She hums while she works---something I don't recognize. Her shoulder brushes mine when she reaches for another plate. The kitchen smells like garlic and tomato sauce and whatever citrus shampoo she uses. Steam rises from the sink, fogging the window above it.
My kitchen is small. She's standing close. Too close. Her hair keeps falling forward and she keeps pushing it back with a soapy hand, leaving bubbles on her cheek that she doesn't notice.
I notice everything.
The freckles on her collarbone where her sweater slips. The way she bites her bottom lip when she's scrubbing a stubborn spot. Her bare feet because she kicked off her shoes by the door---dark blue toenails. The fact that she's humming off-key and doesn't seem to realize it.
"You're staring," she says without looking at me.
"I'm not."
"You definitely are." She grins, handing me a dripping plate. "Something on my face?"
"Bubbles. On your cheek."
"Oh." She wipes at it with the back of her hand, smearing more bubbles across her face. "Better?"
"Worse, actually."
She laughs and the sound does something stupid to my chest.
Our hands brush as she passes me a plate.
It's accidental---she's handing it over, I'm reaching to take it---but the contact stops everything.
Her hand in mine, warm and wet from the dishwater.
Soap bubbles on her fingers. The kitchen suddenly too quiet except for the distant sound of David Attenborough narrating the extinction of the dinosaurs.
She doesn't pull away immediately. Neither do I.
We just stand there, the plate between us forgotten, water dripping from her fingers onto mine. I can feel her pulse jumping in her wrist---or maybe that's my pulse. I've lost track of whose heartbeat is whose.
Her eyes meet mine. Pupils blown wide. Lips parted slightly like she's about to say something but forgot what.
I forgot what breathing is supposed to feel like.
Then Gemma steps back. Her cheeks are flushed pink, and it's not from the hot water.
"Thanks for dinner, Captain," she says.
Her voice comes out softer than usual. Breathier.
I want to say something real. Something honest. I make you coffee because I like knowing you're thinking about me when you drink it.
I time your arrival home because those few minutes of knowing you're close are the best part of my day.
Dinner was terrifyingly easy and that terrifies me even more than the fire on Birch Street.
I haven't felt this comfortable with another person since before my marriage fell apart, and I have no idea what to do with that.
What comes out is: "Anytime."
She smiles like she heard what I didn't say. She dries her hands on the dish towel, sets it carefully on the counter, and leaves. Clarence trails behind her, shooting me one last judgmental look before disappearing through her door.
I stand at the sink until the water goes cold, staring at nothing. My hands are still in the dishwater, pruning. The bubbles have dissolved, leaving just grey water and a few floating bits of basil.
Through the wall, I hear Gemma's door close. Her footsteps moving through her suite. The sound of her turning on music---something soft and acoustic that I can't quite make out through the drywall.
She's right there. Ten feet away through plaster and wood.
Might as well be miles.
Clarence comes back ten minutes later. I hear the soft thud of him jumping through the living room window I apparently left open. He walks into my kitchen, sits in the middle of the floor, and fixes me with those unblinking eyes.
"What?" I demand, finally pulling my hands out of the cold water and drying them on the dish towel. "And how long have you been using that window?"
The cat's expression says everything: Pathetic.
I can't argue with him.
He's right.