Page 29 of Rhodes

Sistering: When a floor joist begins to fail, it is not pulled out. A sound joist is bolted alongside it so the two carry the weight together, and the old one stays exactly where it is, still doing what it can.

Coop calls while I'm still chopping the onion, so I put him on speaker and prop the phone against the flour canister.

"Talk fast. I've got a knife in my hand."

"Two questions and I'll let you go." He's walking somewhere, wind in it. "Is she eating?"

"Is she eating? Jesus, Cooper. Do you think she's incapable of living? Yes, she's eating. And she's a better cook than me."

"That's her." The smile comes into his voice and then goes back out of it. "Second question. Is she going?"

He doesn't say to what because he doesn't have to.

"Every Tuesday," I tell him. "She takes herself without telling me about it, and I don't ask her about it. As far as I know, she has not missed one. But then again, I'm not a micromanager like you are."

The breath he lets out is the sound of a man setting down something he's been carrying up a flight of stairs.

"Easy, tiger. You know me better than that. I just need to ask, okay?"

"Happy to answer. But just saying, she's a lot tougher than y'all give her credit for."

"I know she is," he says. "Thank you, brother."

"Anything for you."

"I don't know what I'd do without you." He says it fast, the way a man agrees with something he's working on believing. "Alright. Go cook. I gotta run."

And as quickly as he was here giving me the third degree about his adult sister, he's gone. I'm grateful to be able to report that all is well.

The onion goes translucent in the pan as I push it around with the wooden spoon. I turn from the stove, setting the spoon on the holder, and wipe the cutting board while it cooks.

The andouille's already sliced and the rice is measured out. The sink is half empty because I clean as I go, the way Vin taught me before I understood I was being taught anything. I rinse the knife, wipe the board, run warm water over my hands.

The sausage hits the pan and hisses.

Tallulah's at the far end of the table with her laptop and a stack of books, a highlighter in her teeth. She's turned herself sideways in the chair, one shoulder toward me, the screen angled away. I don't think she's hiding, necessarily, but she's built a little wall out of her own posture and settled in behind it.

I came in to start dinner, finally deciding I don't have to make myself invisible when she's in a room. If she wants to move, so be it. She was here first, but this is my kitchen.

"You need any of this counter?" I nod at the stretch by the toaster. "I can keep my mess on this side."

"I'm fine."

She turns a page. The highlighter squeaks.

I stir, add the rice, let it toast, watch the grains go from white to a faint gold at the edges. The kitchen smells like pepper and browned meat, and I could set a clock by how good this usually makes an evening feel.

"Careful," I say. "Keep sitting that still and I'll dust you and put you on a shelf."

She says nothing, expelling a short breath through her nose that might be a laugh in a better mood. She writes something in the margin of her book.

I add the stock and the lid, turn it down, and stand there with the spoon in my hand watching steam come up around the edges.

I don't do this part. My move is to leave it alone and let it burn down on its own, or crack a joke over the top of it until nobody remembers there was a hole underneath.

But this dynamic between us shouldn't be like this. We've always been friends. Sure, we're two years apart, and I was always closer to her brother, but we have known each other our entire lives. Her moving in with me for a few months shouldn't have created animosity.

I set the spoon down on the rest. My mouth's gone dry, which is stupid because it's one question, but it doesn't want to come. Turning off the burner, I wipe my hands on the towel over my shoulder.