Chapter 24 Diane
Diane
The day after Sara’s episode is a long, strange drift.
Even the house seems to move slower, like it’s adjusting to the new terms of gravity.
We keep a watchful eye on Sara, tiptoe past the threshold of her bedroom with offerings of tea and toast, but mostly she just sleeps, her face slack and unguarded, hair splayed in a gray corona across the pillow.
It’s a shock, every time I see her like this, a reminder that the iron will she wears in public is just so much skin, so much fragile chemistry, waiting to fail.
Nathan spends most of the morning patching the fence and dragging storm debris to the curb.
I watch him through the kitchen window as I clean up yesterday’s disaster.
He’s wearing an old University of North Carolina T-shirt, hair damp from a quick rinse under the spigot.
When he stoops to tie a bundle of branches, the muscles in his forearm bunch and release.
I pretend not to notice. I pretend it doesn’t matter.
I pretend I’m not thinking about his hand on my back, the way his lips tasted the first time he kissed me, or how easily I could let myself fall into the shape of wanting him.
Lust is easier to manage than grief, even at its most inconvenient moments.
But Sara is upstairs, and I am twice exiled, by guilt and by the fact that there’s nothing worse than a woman who lets herself be selfish.
The memory slinks off, into the nest of soap bubble I am cultivating in the sink.
Cassie is upstairs, in what’s now officially her “room” at Sara’s, hunched over a spiral notebook and drawing what looks like an anatomically correct pelican.
Every so often, I hear her pencil snap, followed by a curse she’s learned from me and thinks I can’t hear.
Rolo is nestled against her thigh, a solid, reassuring furry mass.
By late afternoon, Sara is resting more comfortably.
Cassie camps at the foot of her bed, reading aloud from an old fantasy paperback, her voice soft and steady.
I listen from the doorway for a while, just long enough to convince myself everything is under control, then slip downstairs to the kitchen, where Nathan is boiling water for pasta.
He’s humming, off-key and unselfconscious, and I let myself imagine this is what normal looks like.
Then he turns, catching me mid-scan, and the bubble pops.
“Want some?” he asks, nodding at the saucepan. “Figured you’d be hungry.”
I’m not, but I nod anyway. I set the table, folding napkins with more care than necessary, and try to ignore the way Nathan tracks my every movement as if I’m about to shatter.
We sit across from each other, the silence elastic and dangerous. I twirl pasta onto my fork, take a bite, force myself to chew.
He leans forward, elbows on the table, and says, “You did good yesterday.”
I nearly choke. “What?”
“With Sara. You kept your head. I know it was rough.”
I set my fork down. “I lost it. I barely knew what to do.”
Nathan shakes his head. “You did what needed to be done. A lot of people would’ve frozen.”
“I don’t want to get good at this.”
He sits back, exhaling. “No one does.”
For a while, we just eat. The kitchen is still, the only sound the ticking of Sara’s old wall clock. I try to focus on the food, the aroma of oil and garlic, but my brain is a pinball machine, every thought ricocheting off the next.
Nathan finally says, “What’s going on, Diane?”
I bristle. “Nothing.”
He holds my gaze, unflinching. “You don’t have to be brave around me.”
I want to believe him. I want it so badly, but the distance between wanting and doing is an ocean, and I’m stuck on the wrong side of the tide.
“Cassie is starting to ask a lot of questions,” I say, surprising myself. “About you and me… Us.”
Nathan's eyes flicker with surprise, or maybe it's concern. He sets his fork down, his attention leaning toward me like a flower to the sun.
"And what do you tell her?”
I shrug, my shoulders heavy. "I don't know. I weave around it mostly.”
“She’s a smart kid. She’ll notice if you keep deflecting.”
“I know. She doesn’t miss much.”
“Maybe we should tell her,” Nathan offers. “Something concrete. Even if it’s just that we’re figuring things out.”
I look up at him, struck by how earnest he seems, how willing he is to dive into this uncharted territory. “Maybe. It’s just… I don’t want to give her any false hopes, and then have things fall apart.”
“I get it. But we’re not doing any good dancing around the subject either.”
Nathan is right, but my fear holds me rooted to indecision.
“I know. It just seems like a lot right now,” I say, gesturing vaguely at the table, the kitchen, my whole unraveling life.
“My biggest fear is that the rug gets yanked out from under her again. She just got back on her feet after Kyle. And now there’s Sara… and us…and it’s all so uncertain.”
Nathan leans in, his voice lower, urgent. “I understand. The situation with Sara is precarious, and I know you are shouldering a lot of it, Diane. But regarding us, there’s certainty in my feelings for you. I promise I’m not going anywhere.”
“You say that now,” I shoot back. “But you don’t know what it’s like, having everything hinge on you. I just don’t want Cassie to get hurt. Or you, for that matter.”
He flinches. I can see it, the way his jaw sets, the way his hand curls into a fist on the table. “Don’t worry about me, Diane. I can take care of myself. Besides, hurting is part of the bargain, isn’t it? Otherwise, none of it would matter.”
I want to argue, to tell him that I know from personal experience how quickly the bargain goes sideways, how even the best intentions can topple the delicate architecture of a heart.
But my body is tired; my mind is tired, too, in the way it gets after sleepless nights and too much held-back wanting.
So instead, I push my plate forward, cross my arms, and try to meet him where he is, even though I’d rather retreat and think it through alone.
“I didn’t mean to bite your head off,” I say. “I just wanted to explain how it feels. Like every step I take, I have to rehearse all the ways it could go wrong in case it does.”
“That’s called being a mom.” There’s a ghost of a grin, but when he lifts his water glass, his hands are steady.
I stare into his eyes long enough to see my reflection swimming there and wonder what he sees in me that makes him believe I am worth the trouble.
Perhaps he just wants to rescue someone, and right now I’m the nearest shipwreck.
Or maybe he actually sees me as I am, stripped to scar tissue and sinew, and finds beauty in the survival.
Maybe it doesn’t matter why, just that he keeps showing up, even when the signals are all crossed and the landing strip is on fire.
We clear the table quietly, almost companionable now, moving in a rhythm of small negotiations.
I rinse, he loads, I wipe, he sweeps. When the kitchen is squared away, I drift upstairs to check on Cassie.
Nathan lingers below, his footsteps soft and then absent.
I realize he’s gone out again, probably to sit on the steps and think.
For a second, I wonder if I should follow, but inertia holds me in place.
I disentangle from Cassie, kiss her forehead, and move down the hall to Sara’s room.
She is asleep when I open the door, her mouth slightly open, breath shallow in the hush.
I slip in and sit on the edge of the bed, careful not to wake her.
But even in sleep, she winces, some interior pain squeezing her brow into a knot.
The skin along her collarbone is almost translucent, delicate as old paper, and I realize how little time we have.
Sara’s hand, under the covers, is curled around the sheet, and I want to loosen her grip, to smooth her forehead, to make promises that would sound ridiculous and childish, like “It’s going to be okay,” or “I won’t let anything bad happen.
” Instead, I just sit there, silent and small, and try to imagine the next day, and the day after, and what it will mean for Cassie and myself.
When I return to the kitchen, Nathan and Cassie are at the table, heads bent together over a crossword puzzle.
I make tea, measure out the honey, and watch as Cassie fills in answers, her tongue poking out in concentration.
Nathan catches my eye, just for a second. There’s no smile, but something has shifted, a new gravity holding us in place.
We drink our tea and listen as the wind rattles the loose pane in the back window.
I don’t know what comes next. I don’t know if anything will ever feel easy again.
But for now, we’re all here, holding fast against the undertow.