They stayed another half hour, talked to Richard about the spring commercial contracts, talked to the woman from the improvement committee about a project on Broad Street, ate the very decent chocolate cake from the dessert table, and argued quietly about whether the ganache was too sweet, which it was, and which Clare refused to admit. On the drive home, she sat in the passenger seat with her shoes off and her feet tucked under her. The way she sat when she was comfortable, and the city moved past the windows, and for a while, neither of them said anything. Then she said, "The ganache was perfect. The ganache was too sweet.
You have no appreciation for ganache. I have precise appreciation for ganache. That's different from no appreciation." She looked at him. Darius.
Yeah. She was quiet for a moment. What you did in there? It wasn't anything. Don't doubt that.
Her voice was quiet but firm. Don't make it small. He kept his eyes on the road, his hands on the wheel. He thought about the weight of 37 years of making himself small and the specific unfamiliar sensation of taking up space. It was something, he said.
It was something, she agreed. They pulled onto their street. He parked in the driveway. They sat in the truck for a moment in the particular quiet of a night that had been more than expected. Then his phone buzzed.
A text from Marcus. Heard you brought someone to the Hard Grove thing tonight. About time, man. Also, you still owe me $20 from 2019. Darius stared at the text.
Marcus knows already. Word travels. Clare said it's been 45 minutes. Small neighborhood. He put the phone back in his pocket.
He sat there. He thought about Gerald Walsh and his coffee mug and the sidewalk and the word neighbor that he'd used like a shield. He thought about Renee saying, "Be the man who shows up. That's the whole job." He got out of the truck.
He walked around to Clare's side and opened the door. She looked at him. He wasn't a man who opened doors performatively. She knew that this was different. This was deliberate.
She got out. They stood in the driveway between their two houses in the orange glow of the porch light he'd replaced. Now the correct wattage, 75 watts, which he stood by. Thank you for making me go back in, he said. You made yourself go back in.