You got other work? Some freelance consulting, some part-time stuff. She paused. It's not enough, but it's what there is. He didn't ask anything else.
He recognized the tone, not asking for help, not complaining, just being honest about the weight of something you were carrying. He knew that tone because he used it himself. They painted in silence for a while. Then Olivia said, "You have a daughter, Ava. She's seven.
I've seen you two in the driveway in the mornings. She wears a different colored backpack every week. Marcus smiled despite himself. She has a system. Monday is the red one.
Tuesday the blue. She made a whole chart. Organized kid. She gets that from her mother. He paused.
Waited for the familiar tightening in his chest. It came but softer now. Denise. She died 3 years ago. Olivia's roller stopped.
She turned to look at him. She didn't say I'm sorry the way people usually did. Quickly, reflexively already moving past it. She just looked at him directly. For long enough that it meant something.
3 years is a long time, she said finally. Sometimes, Marcus said, sometimes it feels like last week. She nodded like she understood something beyond the words. "Yeah," she said quietly. "I know how that is." He wanted to ask what she meant.
He didn't. Not yet. Ava was in the kitchen when he got home that afternoon, sitting at the table with three different colored markers and what appeared to be a hand-drawn map of their neighborhood. "Cartography? " Marcus asked. I'm making a birthday party treasure hunt, she said without looking up.
Ms. Olivia helped me with the idea. Marcus stopped in the doorway. You talked to Miss Olivia. She came to get something from her car while I was on the porch. We talked for a little while.