7:00. Huh? Marcus didn't answer. He picked up his tools and went back to the thing he knew how to do. Building, repairing, making something damaged into something that would hold.
But the warmth that had been sitting somewhere in his chest since the tailgate conversation didn't go anywhere. It just stayed there, quiet and inconvenient and honest, the way true things always were. Friday came faster than he expected. He told Amara about dinner on Thursday evening. Low-key just we're going to the Bennett's for dinner tomorrow night.
Amara had processed this for approximately 10 seconds and then said, "Is that the man you work for who gives you coffee?" "Yes." "And is his daughter coming?" Marcus looked at her. "Why do you ask?" Amara gave him a look that was improbably very similar to the look Deshawn had given him standing at the truck. 8 Years old. "Same expression." "I'm just asking," she said. Yes, Marcus said.
His daughter will be there. Amara went back to her homework. Then, without looking up, should I wear my good shoes? Yes, Marcus said. Wear your good shoes.
She nodded once. Seriously? And kept doing her homework. And Marcus stood in the kitchen doorway and thought about the army of people in his life who were apparently much further ahead of him on certain things than he was giving them credit for. Friday evening at 7:00, Marcus and Amara arrived at Richard Bennett's front door.
Marcus knocked. Amara stood beside him in her good shoes with the particular dignity of an 8-year-old who has decided to take something seriously. Richard opened the door and looked at Amara first, and something in his face did a thing that Marcus recognized the expression of a man who sees a child and is reminded suddenly of everything that matters. "You must be Amara," Richard said. Yes, sir.
Amara said, "My daddy says you give him good coffee." Richard laughed fully and warmly. "Your daddy is the only person on my job site who deserves it." He stepped back. "Come in, both of you." They went in, and from somewhere in the back of the house came the sound of something going slightly wrong. In a kitchen, a pot lid maybe, or something set down harder than intended. And then Olivia's voice saying something under her breath in a tone that was specifically the tone of a highly competent person encountering something outside their area of expertise.
Amara looked up at Marcus. Marcus looked back at her. She's cooking, Amara whispered. Apparently, Marcus said, "Richard, leading them toward the back of the house, said over his shoulder without turning," she insisted. "I offered to order in," she said, and I'm quoting that she could absolutely cook dinner for four people, and it would be fine.
They turned the corner into the kitchen, and Olivia was standing at the stove in an apron that had clearly not been worn in some time. Looking at a pan with the focused combative expression of someone engaged in a negotiation. They're not winning. She looked up when they came in. She looked at Marcus first for just a second and her expression did the thing where it tried to be professional and landed somewhere much more human.
Then she looked at Amara and Amara looked at her. "Hi," Amara said. "Hi," Olivia said. And her voice was different. Not the CEO voice, not the managed voice, the other one.
The one that only came out in certain moments. Are you burning something? Amara asked. Genuinely curious, not unkind. Olivia looked at the pan.