Chapter 22: Terms

I invited him to dinner on a Thursday, in our own kitchen.

I wrote it on an index card, like his, and left it in the mailbox at his apartment.

Thursday, six o'clock, our house. I'm cooking. Bring nothing.

He arrived at five fifty-eight, with nothing in his hands, and stood on the porch until I opened the door.

"You can come in," I said.

"Is that a house rule?"

"It's a courtesy. Knock first, though."

He knocked on the open door.

I made chili. It took me two hours, with my cane hooked on the counter and a stool pulled up to the stove.

The ground beef sat browning in the pan.

Dean noticed it, and I watched him notice.

"I threw that package out," he said quietly. "The one on the counter. The day I came home."

"I know."

"I stood there holding it. It was warm, and I didn't understand why."

"I'd put it out to thaw for dinner," I said. "I was going to make this. I was going to make you chili after the fight."

He closed his eyes.

"I know," he said. "I'm so sorry."

"Stir this."

He opened his eyes.

I held out the wooden spoon.

He took it and stirred, and neither of us said anything for a minute.

We ate at the table, across from each other, in the chairs we'd always used.

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