Page 48
That earns a laugh, and the silence that follows settles easily between us beneath the steady rattle of rain across the roof.
She absently traces a finger through the mist gathering on the passenger window before smiling to herself. “My dad loves a night like this.”
“The weather?”
“He treats thunderstorms like live entertainment.” She smiles at the memory. “He loves to make a pot of coffee, sit under the porch roof, and watch the rain for hours while my mom stands inside threatening to drag him back into the house before lightning does it for her.”
“I take it she never succeeds.”
“Dad considers going indoors a personal defeat.” She smiles at the memory. “He always claims she worries too much.”
“Does she?”
“Constantly.”
“And he enjoys every minute.”
“Oh, absolutely.” She shakes her head. “My sister even used to keep score.”
I smile. “Score?”
“Every time Mom shouted at him to come inside versus every excuse Dad invented to stay where he was.”
“Who won?”
“Dad declared victory every single storm.”
“Sounds like he’d already written the rules.”
“Exactly.” She shakes her head, smiling. “Looking back, I think Mom realized that years before the rest of us.”
Traffic inches forward, then stops behind another line of brake lights.
“When I followed Kira out here,” she says, still watching the rain, “I never thought she’d still feel like she has to look after me now.”
“Well, it has been a transitional time…”
“Oh,” she laughs, “she’s always like this. You’ve never met Kira.”
“No.”
“Give her ten minutes and she’ll have reorganized your calendar, criticized your fridge, and decided whether you’re eating enough vegetables.”
I laugh. “I’ll make sure to hide the takeout menus.”
Traffic finally opens up once we’re clear of Midtown, and the conversation keeps finding new places to go without either of us trying very hard.
One story turns into another until we’re debating terrible films, comparing spectacular cooking disasters, and discussing whether Sprout should legally qualify as a repeat offender.
“I’m not allowed to criticize Sprout too much,” Emma says. “I once set fire to microwave popcorn.”
“Accidentally?”
“Apparently that’s the preferred method.”
I smile. “Comforting.”
“My elderly neighbor bought me a fire blanket for Christmas.”
