Chapter 21: Lake Morning

I woke up to the smell of burning toast.

The quilt beside me was empty, still warm, and from the kitchen came a clatter and a quiet, furious word.

I put on his shirt and went to look.

Nathan stood at my grandmother's stove in his undershirt, holding a spatula like a sword.

The toaster was smoking.

There was a pan on the burner with something in it that had once been an egg.

"Don't," he said, without turning around.

"I haven't said anything."

"You were going to."

"I was going to say good morning."

"It's a lie. It's a terrible morning." He scraped the pan into the sink. "I used to make breakfast. In the first apartment."

"You made cereal."

"With milk. At the right temperature."

I laughed so hard I had to sit down.

He turned at last, and he was grinning, a real one, creased at the eyes.

I hadn't seen it in two years.

"Say it," he said.

"Say what?"

"The thing you're not saying."

"I'm happy," I said. "I'm sitting in a kitchen with the world's worst cook and I'm happy."

He crossed the floor in two steps and kissed the top of my head.

"That was easy," he said. "Why was that easy?"

"Because it's true."

Molly came at nine, uninvited, with a bakery box and her boat keys.

She walked straight into the kitchen without knocking.

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