Cassie doesn’t look up from her cereal. She segregates the colored rings into separate piles, picking through the loops with a calculated economy of movement. I want to reach across the table and take her hand, but I know better. The last time I tried, she pulled away like I was the one on fire. In the wake of Sara’s death, Cassie has built an invisible wall around herself, one that I can’t seem to penetrate.
Nathan arrives with the wind, the door slamming behind him. He’s carrying a bag of bagels and two foam cups, which is so perfectly Nathan that I nearly laugh.
“Sorry I’m late,” he says, his voice too bright, like he’s auditioning for a sitcom dad. “Had to rescue these from the perils of the 7-Eleven bakery section.”
Cassie makes a face but takes a bagel when offered. Progress.
Nathan sits across from her, unwrapping a cinnamon raisin and slathering it with the tiny packet of cream cheese. He looksat me, eyes flicking from my face to the coffee mug to the dark blue sweater I pulled from the laundry basket because it still smells faintly of last night’s ocean air.
“Rough morning?” he asks.
I glance at Cassie, then back to him. “You could say that.”
He smiles, and there is a genuine warmth beneath the forced cheer. “I once set an entire kitchen towel on fire trying to impress a girl with my omelet skills. This”—he gestures to the breakfast spread—“is an improvement.”
Cassie snorts, and a crumb shoots from her mouth onto the table. She blushes, then immediately reverts to neutral.
Nathan turns to her, as if this is a normal family scene. “How’s the science project coming? Need a hand?”
She recoils, just slightly. “I can do it myself.”
“Bug,” I say, my tone slipping into the careful register of post-trauma parenting, “manners.”
“Please don’t call me that,” she mutters, “and I don’t need help.”
Nathan nods, unoffended. “Copy that.”
My eyes drift to the far end of the kitchen, where the manuscript pages are stacked next to my laptop, binder-clipped into a lopsided sheaf. I left them out as a kind of dare to myself: Finish this or admit you never will. The top page is crumpled at one corner, stained with what might be wine or maybe just hope.
Cassie’s gaze follows mine. “Did you stay up writing again?”
I nod, sheepish. “I got a little carried away.”
She makes a sound, almost a laugh. “You always do.”
Nathan glances at the stack, then back at me. “How’s it going?”
I hesitate. I don’t want to talk about it for the same reason you don’t poke a sleeping bear—it might wake up. “Better,” I manage to say.
He raises his mug, a salute. “To better.”
Cassie eyes him, skepticism and curiosity in equal measure.
Nathan tries again, softer this time. “If you ever want a break from homework, I could show you how to make one of those baking soda volcanoes. Pure chaos. No grading involved.”
The corners of her mouth twitch, the urge to smile stomped down before it can break the surface.
“We used to do those,” she says, barely audible. “When I was little.”
Nathan’s voice is gentle. “I bet yours would put mine to shame.”
Cassie shrugs. “Maybe.”
I want to say something, anything, to keep the bridge from collapsing. But I’m afraid of stepping wrong and watching the whole thing fall.
It’s Nathan who finally breaks the tension. He pushes back from the table, brushing the crumbs from his hands. “You know,” he says, “Sara used to let me help in the garden. She always said the dirtier your hands, the better the flowers.”
Cassie’s face flickers, grief and loyalty in an impossible tangle.