Page 38 of Shattered

“What’s that?” I asked, trying to sound casual instead of pathetically grateful he was home.

“Dinner.”

“I can see that. Where from?”

“Your favorite place.”

I stared at him. “You went to Hector’s? That’s in Midtown. You don’t work in Midtown. Did you?—”

“I left the meeting early. Picked this up on the way back.” He started unpacking containers onto the counter. “It’s still warm if you want to eat now.”

I wanted to ask why. Why he’d left a meeting early—apparently unprecedented, from Mark’s horrified expression in my imagination—just to bring me food from my favorite restaurant.

But the question felt too big, too revealing, too close to something I wasn’t ready to name. So I just said, “Balcony?”

“Balcony.”

We carried everything outside to my fire escape that I’d optimistically designated a balcony. It was barely big enough for two people and a plant that was definitely dying. The sunset was painting Brooklyn in gold and the temperature had finally dropped to tolerable.

I ate and felt something I hadn’t felt in weeks. Not quite happiness. But close. Something warm that filled the empty spaces Jake had left behind.

“You’re making sounds, you enjoy the meal this much?” Axel observed.

“These are appreciation sounds. You wouldn’t understand nuance.”

“Try me.”

I pointed at my plate with my fork. “This chicken? Marinated for twenty-four hours in buttermilk and spices. The potatoes are triple-cooked. First boiled, then chilled, then fried twice. The sauce alone takes three hours and uses seventeen ingredients. This isn’t casual food. This is art masquerading as dinner.”

He looked amused. “You should have been a food critic.”

“I considered it. But then I’d have to eat at bad restaurants and pretend to be objective about it. I’m not that strong.”

“Fair.”

We ate in comfortable silence for a while. The sun was setting properly now, turning everything orange and purple. From here, you could almost forget Brooklyn was part of a massive city. Almost pretend we were somewhere peaceful.

“I still remember the first time my dad took me to that restaurant,” I heard myself say. “Eight years ago. Right after I got into college.”

Axel set down his fork, giving me his full attention.

“It was perfect,” I continued, staring at the sunset instead of at him. “My whole family was there. Mom was sharp, Dad was healthy, Daniel was still in med school and not completely exhausted all the time. We ate until we couldn’t move. Dad kept making terrible jokes and Mom kept telling him to stop and then laughing anyway. I remember thinking—” My voice caught. “I remember thinking this was how it would always be. That we’d always have this.”

The tears came without permission, hot and fast. I pressed the heels of my hands against my eyes, trying to shove them back in.

“I’m sorry. I don’t know why I’m?—”

“You don’t have to apologize.”

I looked at him. His face was different than usual. Open in a way I’d never seen.

“I understand,” he said quietly. “How it feels. To have what’s comfortable ripped away from you.”

Something in his voice made me go still.

“My mother…” He stopped. I could see slight hesitation in his eyes. “After my father died, she just… disappeared. Not physically, not at first. But she’d look at me like I was a stranger. Like she couldn’t remember who I was or why I was in her house. The doctors said it was depression. Grief. But it felt like abandonment.”

His eyes were doing something I’d never seen—going bright and wet, mirroring mine.