Page 23 of Split Decision

"You don't have to thank me for that."

"I know." I meet his eyes. "I'm doing it, anyway."

He reaches across the table and covers my hand with his. We sit like that for a few minutes—the oatmeal going warm, Atlanta lightening slowly outside, the day pressing toward us and not quite here yet.

"I'm going to miss this," I say.

"Which part?"

"All of it." I look at him. "This exact thing. Morning. You. The oatmeal you make even when I don't ask."

He squeezes my hand once. "I'll make you oatmeal when I'm back."

"I know you will."

He has to leave. He always has to leave. I watch him do the things he does every morning—pack the bag, check the watch, fill the water jug—and I think about how in less than a month this kitchen will just be mine in the mornings. His chair will be empty. The stove will be cold.

He kisses me at the door the way he does when he means it—deliberate, unhurried, the kind that saysI’m with yourather thanI'm leaving.

"Wake me when you get home," he says.

"Always," I say.

He walks out to the garage, and I stand at the door for a moment as he puts his gear in the backseat of the truck. I’m wearing his T-shirt that I slept in, watching him with so much love in my heart that I’m sure it’s spilling over to my eyes.

Killing me,I hear him mutter as he climbs behind the wheel.

I smile as I close the door.

I stand in the kitchen and let the quiet settle around me, and I think about the fact that the pressure has been building for eight weeks without any of us being able to see where it's coming from. The donor calls. The audit. The Commission review. The board meeting. All of it arriving in the same window, from different directions, with the same effect.

Someone is very good at this.

The question I keep not finishing is:good at thisfor how long?

LUKE

The week before Christmas, Mack tells me I can have the evening off.

Not phrased as a gift. Phrased as a tactical decision—my body needs a recovery cycle, I've been running at a deficit, and a fighter who trains through exhaustion is building bad habits into muscle memory. He says it the way he says everything, which is like he's reading from a technical manual. But I've been around him long enough to know when he's also doing something kind.

I text Andi.

Free tonight. What do you need?

She takes longer than usual to reply. When she does, her reply is cryptic.

Come find me.

I know exactly where she is. So I drive straight to the youth center.

She's in the parking lot when I pull in—sitting on the hood of her car, which she does when she's thinking, which means she's been here a while. The building is lit from inside. Mrs. Alvarez's car is still in the lot. The afternoonprograms are still running at full capacity. But they’ll always make room for one more.

I park beside her and get out.

She looks at me for a moment. Just looks. What I see in her eyes tells me she can breathe easier now that the thing she needed is finally here.

"Hey," she says.