Chapter 24: Fridays

In the morning he said it again.

He said it in daylight, in his kitchen, barefoot, with a mug of coffee in each hand.

"I love you," Vaughn said.

"You said that last night."

"You told me to say it in the morning."

"I did." I took the mug. "I wanted to check it survived the sun."

"Does it?"

"It looks fine from here."

He waited. He had learned how.

"I love you too," I said, and the words felt less dangerous in my mouth than I had feared. "It's rude, how much."

He put his forehead against mine, and we stood there until the coffee went cold.

On Friday at nine o'clock, I was standing in line at a bakery in Bridgeport when I took out my phone.

The second phone was gone. A lawyer from the attorney general's office had collected it on Wednesday, in a clear plastic bag, with a receipt.

I used the real one.

I typed with my thumb, the way I had typed every Friday for three years.

All quiet.

I sent it to Vaughn.

The reply came before the baker had finished my box.

Liar.

I laughed out loud in the middle of the shop.

I typed again: Meet me at the Lantern at ten. Front row. Pay for your own seat.

Nothing came back for a minute.

Then: Yes, ma'am.

I carried the lemon cake to Harbor House and watched my mother eat the first slice with her fork in her own good hand.

The speech therapist sat in the corner, pretending not to take notes.

"Your... boy," Maureen said, mouth full. "Is he... coming?"

"He's coming Sunday. He wants to bring a second cake."

"Good. Tell him... the first... was better."

"I'll tell him."

"Tell him... I like him."

"Mam, you've told him yourself."

"Tell him... again."

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