I closed my eyes and let out a shaky sigh.
A sound of footsteps behind me snapped me back. Ford poked his head out. “He’s a machine, isn’t he?”
“He’s something,” I said, smiling.
“You want to come in and keep me company? Otherwise, I’m going to burn the garlic bread and ruin my one chance at looking competent.”
I laughed, and it felt good—easy, even. “Come on, Noah, let’s wash up!” I called, and he came running.
The kitchen was chaos, but no different than I was used to. The island was covered with dishes and empty pasta boxes, the stove top already dotted with sauce splatters. Ford had swapped his flannel for a t-shirt, revealing his full sleeves of tattoos that I tried not to stare at.
“Sorry about the mess,” he said. “Didn’t plan ahead. I can order a pizza if this is a disaster.”
“Oh no, we love spaghetti,” I said. “You’re already a hero.”
He looked relieved, then fished out a colander from a lower cabinet. “You want to set the table? Plates are in that cupboard. Flatware is . . . somewhere.”
We moved around each other with a weird, immediate choreography, like we’d been doing this for longer than a day. I got out plates (all mismatched, one with a faded cartoon cow on the rim), poured a fresh glass of wine, and wiped off a spot on the table where some sawdust had migrated from the construction. Ford worked the stove, stirring with one hand, checking his phone for a recipe with the other.
After lingering on the patio, Noah burst in, dirt-streaked and pink-cheeked, and went straight for the kitchen sink. He washed his hands for once without being reminded again, then plopped into a chair and started swinging his legs.
“Ready for spaghetti, Freddy?” Ford called over his shoulder.
“Yeah!” Noah shouted. “I’m hungry.”
Ford drained the pasta, then spooned sauce over three enormous bowls. He carried them to the table, then set out a basket of garlic bread that was more butter than bread. He sat, gave me a sheepish smile, and waited.
I twirled a bite of spaghetti, took a bite, and tried not to make a face at how absurdly good it was. “This is amazing,” I said, honestly shocked.
He looked pleased, but also shy. “Not fancy, but this marinara sauce is one of like, three things I’ve got memorized. I probably eat this twice a week.”
“It might be the best sauce I’ve ever had. We just use the jarred stuff,” I said, and Ford laughed, cheeks turning pink.
Noah was already halfway through his bowl, sauce everywhere, humming a silly little song under his breath.
The kitchen was warm, the overhead lights cozy and yellow, the world outside turning black. There was a softness here—a sense that maybe it was possible to have something simple and good, even if it wasn’t what you planned for.
Ford refilled our wine, then sat back and just watched us eat. I caught him looking more than once—at me, at Noah, at the mess and noise and total lack of rules.
“Thanks for coming over,” he said, voice almost too soft to hear.
“Thanks for inviting us,” I said, just as quiet.
He held my gaze, steady and a little fierce, like he was daring me to look away. I didn’t.
After dinner, we cleaned up together. I washed, Ford dried, Noah stacked the forks in a wonky tower and declared himself “king of forks.” Ford offered dessert (store bought cookies, but only because he’d run out of time), and Noah devoured two before running out of energy and collapsing in my lap.
I tucked Noah’s hair behind his ear and felt the shape of his small, safe weight in my arms. It was the same as always, but different—like I’d found a version of the world where we didn’t have to fight for every scrap of happiness.
“I know this wasn’t anything fancy, but I wanted you to know you’re always welcome here.”
I looked at him, the light, the room, the sleeping boy in my lap. “This was wonderful. Perfect, really,” I said, and I meant it.
“Good. Because I’m just getting started.”
Eighteen
Ford
