Page 209 of The Final Cut

Carefully, badly, pretending the help Deacon gives him is unnecessary while absolutely using it. Mari crosses to him with the blanket from the back of the chair and lays it over his knees. He catches her wrist before she can step away.

Her breath catches. He strokes his thumb once over the inside of her wrist.

“I came back.”

Mari’s face crumples, and for once, she doesn’t hide it from me or Delia or anyone else.

“Yes,” she whispers. “You did.”

I look away because some things are too private even when they happen in the middle of a terrace full of criminals, lovers, sisters, and one cat currently attempting to chew through Sonny’s sandal strap.

Sonny sniffs. “I’m fine. Nobody look at me.”

Delia sits back down, wiping her cheek with the heel of her hand. “We weren’t looking at you, Jesus. Not everything is about you.”

“You were looking at me spiritually.”

“I don’t even know what that means.”

“It means pass me a napkin, cartel Barbie.”

Delia gives her a napkin. Then, to everyone’s shock, she laughs out loud.

Lunch becomes chaos after that.

Gentle chaos, which is new for us. Cal is forced to eat soup and complains it has no dignity. Shiloh offers to bring whiskey; Mari threatens him with a spoon. Ever takes Cal’s pulse without asking and gets called a brick wall with boundary issues. Nash discusses security with Delia until I throw a roll at him and tell him no empire talk during soup. Deacon feeds Homer a forbidden shred of chicken beneath the table and denies it when the cat immediately climbs into his lap.

“You’re a terrible liar,” I tell him.

Deacon looks down at Homer. “He’s starving.”

“He weighs four fat pounds.”

“Four hungry pounds.”

Cal watches the exchange with narrowed eyes. “That cat looks familiar.”

Delia and I both start crying again. Cal stares at us.

“What did I say?”

“Nothing,” Mari says softly, reaching for his hand.

This time, she doesn’t hide the touch. This time, I don’t resent it.

Her hand belongs there. So does mine. So does Delia’s when she reaches across the corner of the table and taps Cal’s wrist with two fingers, too shy for a full touch and too proud to call it anything else.

He looks down at her fingers. Then up at her.

“You were missed,” he says.

Delia looks away fast.

“Terrible timing,” she mutters.

“No,” he says. “Perfect timing.”

The table quiets.