Cassie rolls her eyes. “As if that’s a punishment.”
He grins, and the heaviness of the day seems to soften around the edges.
I settle onto a cushion, the one that smells like Sara’s perfume even after three washings, and pat the spot next to me. Cassie hesitates, then drops down with a sigh, curling her legs under herself in a way that reminds me of every year she’s ever lived.
Nathan pours the hot chocolate, handing the first mug to Cassie, then one to me. He keeps his hands wrapped around his own, as if savoring the heat.
I count the seconds in my head, try to calculate the exact right moment to speak.
I decide there isn’t one. “I was thinking,” I say, “maybe we could try something tonight.”
Both pairs of eyes are on me, wary but open.
I take a breath. “Let’s each say one thing we’re scared of, and one thing we hope for. About, you know. This.” I gesture, clumsy, to the air between us.
Cassie’s mouth twists. “Like therapy?”
“Kind of,” I say. “But you get to hold your mug like a shield.”
She stares into her cocoa, then shrugs. “Fine.”
Nathan’s smile is small, but it’s there. “I’ll go last,” he says, and Cassie flashes him a look that is both challenge and gratitude.
I start. “I’m scared I won’t be able to make this work. The writing, the parenting, the…everything.” The confession tastes bitter, but I chase it with a gulp of chocolate. “But I hope I can do what Sara wanted. I hope I can live in every room of this house and not be afraid.”
Cassie nods, her expression unreadable. “I’m scared you’ll forget about Dad. Or that you’ll get so busy with Nathan and your book that there won’t be any room left for me.” Her voicecracks just a little. “But I hope…maybe we can finally have a real home. Not just a place we crash between disasters.”
She looks at Nathan, expecting—what? Judgment? Pity? He gives her neither.
He says, “I’m scared I won’t measure up. That I’ll say the wrong thing, or push too hard, and mess it all up for both of you. But I hope we can build something good.”
No one speaks for a while. The silence isn’t heavy. It’s careful, like something precious you don’t want to break.
Cassie wipes her nose with her sleeve. “You’re both so cheesy.”
Nathan lifts his mug. “Guilty as charged.”
She laughs, just a little, and I want to reach out and tuck her hair behind her ear, but I know better. Instead, I pour her another mug, extra whipped cream, and she doesn’t protest.
The wind picks up, whistling through the cracks in the old window. It sounds like singing, or maybe just the house reminding us it’s still here, stubborn and solid.
We talk for hours. Not all at once, not about anything important, at least not on the surface. Cassie wants to dye her hair blue for the spring play. Nathan tells a story about getting locked in the art supply closet for an entire period and eating three sleeves of saltines to survive. I confess my secret love for trashy reality TV. Each admission is a pebble in the foundation, something to build on.
Eventually, I broach the subject of Nathan moving in with us, half-joking, mostly not. Cassie snorts. “Isn’t he already here, like every night?” Nathan lifts his hands as though he’s been caught by floodlights. I expect embarrassment, maybe even a little warfare, but instead the conversation rolls past like a slow river. We agree on pancakes in the morning, and Nathan says he makes a mean omelet, and he’ll prove it if we let him handle the stove.
When the mugs are empty and the lamp is flickering, Cassie looks at Nathan. “Do you know anything about volcanoes?”
“Only that they’re messy and awesome,” he says, trying to play it cool.
“Okay. I might need help with my project tomorrow, if you don’t mind.”
He gives her a salute. “It would be my honor.”
She rolls her eyes, but she’s smiling when she stands to go to bed.
Nathan and I linger in the circle of lamplight, neither of us quite ready to call it a night. I look at his hands, the dirt still worked into the creases, the knuckles raw from digging.
“Feeling better?” I ask.