The version of me that's here makes decisions in the positive space. She looked at him. What she actually wants and you want to stay? I want to stay. He reached across the table and covered her hand with his.
Not a gesture, not a statement, just contact the specific warmth of a hand that had spent years working that was strong and certain that closed over hers like a door finding its frame. Then stay, he said. I'm not going anywhere. She turned her hand under his. Held it.
I know, she said. That's why I can. April arrived and Ava turned 8. The birthday party was held at the apartment. Caleb had offered a venue, something with more room, somewhere that could accommodate eight small children and their parents, and the specific chaos of that demographic.
And Ava had looked at him with this expression that indicated she found the suggestion slightly bewildering. It's my party, she said. It should be at home. So, it was at home. Natalie arrived two hours early to help, which Ava had requested specifically, and which Caleb had relayed with the careful neutrality of a man who was not going to editorialize.
She brought balloons, good ones, not the cheap kind that deflated by evening, and a cake she had not made herself, but had ordered from a bakery after an extremely thorough research process that involved consulting three separate review sources. She also brought a gift. She'd wrapped herself imperfectly with the slightly overtaped gift hunson who didn't wrap gifts often and was not going to pretend otherwise. Ava opened the gift with her characteristic ceremony deliberate attentive like each layer of paper contained information worth having. When she got to the box inside and opened it, she was quiet for a moment.
It was a book, old cloth covered, the kind that had weight to it. a collection of illustrations detailed, precise, the kind of thing that rewarded looking closely. And inside the front cover, in Natalie's handwriting, a note. Not long, just a few sentences. Ava read it. She looked up.
You said you're glad I pointed. She said, "I'm very glad you pointed." Ava looked at the book. Looked at Natalie. Looked at Caleb, who was standing against the kitchen doorway, pretending to be occupied with something else.
"I knew," Ava said simply. I know you did. Dad didn't know. He figured it out eventually. Ava said it with the precise, affectionate judgment of someone who has been patient about a thing for a long time.
He's slow sometimes. He's thorough. Natalie said there's a difference. Ava considered this. He's thorough.
She agreed. From the kitchen doorway, Caleb said nothing. But the back of his neck went slightly red, which both of them noticed, and neither of them commented on. The eight small children arrived. The apartment became briefly the most noise a space that size had ever contained.