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Huh? “None.”
She playfully rolls her eyes. “Of course not.”
The only woman who’s been in this apartment since last summer is currently sitting on the couch right now.
“How’s the spaghetti?” I ask.
“So good.” She takes another bite, talking with her mouth full in the most un-Kennedy-like way. “I think I might want a second bowl.”
“I’m a fairly shit cook, but I have about three solid recipes in my arsenal and that’s one of them.”
“Are you going to make me the other two someday?”
“I’m sure you could talk me into that. But the spaghetti is my favorite. My mom taught me how to make the sauce when I was a kid.”
Kennedy takes her time chewing as she watches me. “She did a good job.”
“She was a great teacher.”
“She did a good job with you too.”
Fuck me.
I’ve got my handle on snarky Kennedy, shy Kennedy, and even drunk Kennedy, but sweet and honest Kennedy? I’m a goner already.
As I sit facing her, my legs extended in the space between us but bent so as to not take up too much of her space, Kennedy uncrosses hers, slipping her feet between mine. The couch isn’t long enough for my tall frame, but I couldn’t be happier about having to share it now, the two of us using the armrests as back support to face each other as we eat our midnight dinner.
Her voice is gentle when she says, “If you ever want to tell me about her, you can.”
A simple request, that if I want to, I can. No expectation. No demand to know more.
I swallow down any unwanted emotions that could be sitting at the back of my throat. “I don’t really like talking about her.”
Because there’s not a world in which I could pretend I’m not still that heartbroken thirteen-year-old boy waiting for his mom to get home, and I don’t know how to keep my lighthearted, easy mask on when she’s the topic of discussion.
Kennedy’s bare foot grazes mine, a smile on those lips I want to kiss again. “Okay.”
“Okay.”
“The woman knew how to make one hell of a bowl of spaghetti though.” Kennedy gestures to her nearly empty dish.
Huffing a laugh, I smile. A rare smile when I’m speaking of my mom.
“It’s not that I don’t want to tell you about her, Ken, it’s just that I miss her. A lot. I’ve lived more of my life without her than with, and still I haven’t stopped missing her.”
She drops the bowl to her lap, a grin gracing her lips. It’s not a pitying smile, it’s a genuine one. “How lucky is she to have two boys who love her as much as you and your brother do. And how lucky are you,” Kennedy continues, her knee nudging mine, “to have a mom you love so much you still miss her all these years later.”
I’ve never thought of it that way. I’ve never looked at the thirteen years I had with her with gratitude. It’s always been with anger, that I didn’t have enough time.
But I had thirteen years of being loved by a mother when Kennedy has had none.
“Grief seems like a privilege, in a way,” she says. “To have loved someone so much that you can’t imagine life without them. I’ve never felt that.”
“Not even when you lost your dad?”
She shakes her head, occupying herself by twirling her fork around her remaining noodles. “But I hope one day I’m capable of loving someone that much.” Her smile is optimistic as she looks up at me. “Maybe one day, even I’ll be missed.”
My heart sinks at her hopefulness.
