"But she said we were weird." I know, baby. "We're not weird." "We're not. We're just—" She stopped, picked at the edge of the cookie.
"Different." "Yeah." He leaned forward and put his elbows on the table so he was at her level. Different isn't weird. It's just different.
That doesn't mean Morgan can't hurt your feelings. And it doesn't mean you have to be okay with what she said. Ava looked at him. "But I still can't say mean things back." ""No."" "Even when they're true." She was quiet for a moment.
"Then is Miss Clare coming for dinner Friday?" The pivot was so fast he almost didn't track it. Where did that come from? I just want to know. He studied his daughter's face, which was completely earnest and also clearly doing several things at once beneath the surface.
I don't know yet, he said. "Why?" "Because," Ava said carefully. "I think having people for dinner makes the house feel less different." He looked at her.
She looked back at him, patient and steady and 8 years old. And Malcolm thought about all the ways a child reconfigures the way an adult understands love. Not by explaining it, but by simply demonstrating it in the natural and uncomplicated way that children do before the world teaches them to be complicated. "I'll ask her," he said. Ava nodded.
"Okay." She picked up the cookie. Conversation apparently concluded. Malcolm sat there for another moment and then he took out his phone and texted Clare. "Ava wants to know if you're coming to dinner Friday.
Direct quote: 'It makes the house feel less different.'" 3 minutes later. "I'll be there. What should I bring?" He looked at the message. Then he texted back.
"Just you is enough." He watched the three dots appear. Disappear. Appear again. "Then that might be the first time you've said that to anyone."