There's something else. She waited. He asked me something this morning. Before he told me about Montana, Nathan looked at his hands around the cup.
He asked me if I was going to be all right. Not the ranch, me. He looked at me and he said, "Nathan, are you going to be all right?" And I told him yes.
He paused. And I meant it. That's the thing. I meant it without thinking about it first, which I wouldn't have been able to say a year ago.
I wouldn't have known the answer. She didn't say anything. She understood this was something he was arriving at, not something he'd already arrived at. I was pretty far gone when you showed up, he said.
I don't know if I've ever said that directly. You didn't need to. I want to. He looked up at her.
Caleb was the only reason I got out of bed some mornings. Not because I wanted to, just because he needed feeding and there was no one else. His voice was level, the way it always was when he was saying something that wasn't level underneath. I wasn't managing.
I was surviving, which is different. I know the difference, she said. I know you do. He held her gaze.
I'm not surviving anymore. I want you to know I understand what that means and where it comes from. It came from the accumulated weight of daily things. From breakfast that were ready and accounts that were in order and a baby who was thriving and a house that was warm.
From being known specifically accurately without flattery by the person who lived across the table from you. She didn't say any of this because he knew it and saying it would make it smaller somehow. Reduce it to a list when it was not a list but something whole. Calhoun leaves at the end of the month.
Nathan said, "We'll have a proper dinner before he goes." He'd hate that. I know. We're doing it anyway.