Page 104

Wells is sitting at the end of the table in his school uniform with a small magnetic chessboard arranged in front of him, his dark hair still slightly damp from the shower and his blue eyes narrowed in concentration. His backpack is already zipped beside his chair, shoes tied, water bottle filled, homework folder sitting neatly on top as if he’s preparing for an inspection rather than elementary school.

“The puzzle probably isn’t wrong,” I tell him.

“You’re probably missing something.”

His eyebrows pull together.

“I checked it four times.”

“Then check it five.”

He gives me a look that suggests my contribution has been deeply disappointing.

Across the kitchen, his brother is attempting to bounce a soccer ball off one knee while explaining something involving a robot, a solar panel and a disagreement he had yesterday with another boy at school.

“Eli said you can’t make one that actually follows you unless it has a camera,” Miles says as the ball drops to the floor and rolls underneath one of the stools.

“But that’s not true because I watched this video where this guy built one with sensors, and I think we could make one that follows a heat signal instead. Not body heat, because that would probably get confused if there were too many people, but maybe something you could wear.”

“Miles, breakfast,” I say.

“I am eating.”

“You’re standing six feet away from your plate.”

He glances toward the half-eaten eggs on the table.

“I was coming back.”

“You’ve been coming back for ten minutes.”

Miles retrieves the soccer ball, tucks it beneath one arm and walks over to me. He has the same dark hair as Wells, although his never stays where anyone puts it, and his blue eyes are brighter this morning because he has apparently decided six thirty is an appropriate time to solve the future of personal robotics.

He wraps his free arm around my waist and presses his cheek against my side.

“Can we build it this weekend?” he asks.

I kiss the top of his head.

“We can research it this weekend.”

“That means no.”

“That means I’m not buying electronic parts until I know you aren’t planning to set the garden on fire.”

“I’ve never set the garden on fire.”

“An excellent record I’d like to preserve.”

Miles grins and releases me before returning to the table.

The kitchen looks exactly like what happens when three people live hard in the same space. Two school bags are competing for room beside my work tote. One of Miles’s sneakers is inexplicably under the breakfast bar even though he’s wearing both shoes, which means it belongs to some previous day and no one has noticed. Wells has left two library books stacked perfectly beneath his chair, while a half-built model bridge occupies the far end of the counter because Miles decided the den no longer offered the correct lighting.

None of it matches the photographs in the real-estate listing from when I bought the townhouse. I prefer it this way. The house is comfortable without being precious about itself. Three bedrooms upstairs, a small den that the boys have mostly claimed, my office overlooking the garden and enough wall space for the pieces I’ve collected because I love them rather than because anyone else thinks I should. There are fingerprints on the glass doors leading outside, cleats by the back step and a watercolor above the fireplace that cost less than one of the dining chairs but still makes me happy every time I look at it.

Wells suddenly lifts one finger over the chessboard.

“Wait.”