Part 10:
She waved frantically at Clara’s car, bouncing on her toes with the kind of uncontained excitement that Clara had forgotten existed. Clara grabbed the wine, took a deep breath, and stepped out into the rain. “You came,” Emma shouted as if there had been any doubt. Daddy said you might have to work late, but I knew you’d come because you promised, and promises are important.
Promises are important, Clara agreed, following Emma up the walkway. And I always keep mine. Ryan appeared in the doorway, wearing jeans and a navy henley that made his eyes look impossibly blue. He was holding a dish towel, and there was a smudge of flower on his jaw that made Clara want to reach up and brush it away.
He smiled when he saw her, and Clara felt something warm bloom in her chest, like spring arriving after a particularly brutal winter. “Welcome,” he said. “Fair warning. The kitchen’s a disaster. Dinner’s running late, and Emma’s been practicing her Saturn quiz all afternoon.” “I’m ready,” Clara said, holding up the wine bottle like a shield.
“I brought this, but I just realized it’s probably too it’s perfect,” Ryan said, taking it from her. He glanced at the label and his eyebrows rose slightly. Really perfect. We’re definitely not worthy of this wine, but we’ll drink it anyway. Emma grabbed Clara’s hand and dragged her inside. The house was small but warm.
Lived in in a way Clara’s penthouse had never been. Photographs covered the walls. Emma as a baby, Ryan and a woman who must have been Sarah on their wedding day, family pictures from birthdays and holidays, and ordinary moments that someone had deemed worth remembering. The furniture was mismatched but comfortable, and there were books everywhere, stacked on coffee tables, tucked into corners, children’s books mixed with cooking magazines and novels with worn spines.
It looked like a home, a real home where real people lived real lives. This is our living room, Emma announced, giving Clara the full tour. That’s Daddy’s chair where he reads to me. That’s my art table where I do projects. That’s Flash. She pointed to a fishbowl on a small table near the window where a goldfish swam lazy circles.
He’s not actually that fast, but don’t tell him. It would hurt his feelings. Clara crouched down to examine Flash. I won’t say a word. Your secret’s safe with me. Good. Daddy says, “Secrets between friends are okay as long as they’re not bad secrets.” Emma tugged Clara toward the kitchen. Come on, we’re making spaghetti carbonara because I told Daddy you needed fancy food, but he said carbonara is fancy and easy, so it’s perfect.
The kitchen was indeed a disaster. Bowls and measuring cups everywhere, a pot of water boiling on the stove, bacon sizzling in a pan. Ryan was moving between stations with practice deficiency, and Clara suddenly felt desperately out of place in her silk blouse and tailored pants. “Put me to work,” she said, because doing something was better than standing there feeling useless.
Ryan looked at her at her designer clothes and perfect manicure, and she saw him trying to figure out what to assign her. “Can you whisk eggs? I can learn.” He smiled at that. “Fair enough. Come here.” Clara moved to stand beside him at the counter. Ryan handed her a bowl and a whisk, then cracked four eggs into it with one-handed efficiency that made her feel even more inadequate.
“Just beat them until they’re smooth,” he instructed. “Not too hard, not too soft, like this.” He put his hand over hers on the whisk and guided her through a few strokes. And Clare was suddenly intensely aware of how close he was standing, the warmth of his body, the way his hand felt wrapped around hers. I think I’ve got it,” she managed to say, though her voice came out shakier than intended.
Ryan stepped back and Clara focused very intently on whisking eggs while Emma chattered about her day at school. The little girl was sitting on a stool at the counter, supposedly doing homework, but mostly providing running commentary on everything happening around her. Mrs. Patterson said I could do my space presentation next week, Emma reported.
I’m going to talk about Mars. Did you know Mars used to have water like a long time ago? Scientists think there might have been life there. I did know that, Clara said, grateful for a topic she’d researched. And they’re sending more rovers to look for evidence. I want to go there myself someday, not just send robots, real me, in a real spaceship.
Emma’s eyes were bright with dreams that hadn’t yet learned to be realistic. Would you come visit me on Mars if I lived there? Clara glanced at Ryan, who was grating cheese and pretending not to listen. That’s a very long trip, but yes, I think I would. Someone has to make sure you’re eating your vegetables, even on Mars.
Daddy already makes me eat vegetables. That’s not going to change just because I’m on a different planet. Emma sighed dramatically. Grown-ups are obsessed with vegetables. It’s one of our defining characteristics, Ryan said solemnly. They work together in comfortable chaos. Ryan directing operations like a conductor leading an orchestra.
Clara whisked eggs, then learned to drain pasta, then was trusted with the crucial task of combining everything while Ryan added bacon and cheese and pepper. “Emma set the table with meticulous care, making sure all the forks lined up perfectly.” “She gets that from me,” Ryan admitted, watching his daughter work.
