Page 113 of Second Alarm
"I’m on my way."
"Okay."
"Ten minutes."
"See you then."
When I come into the apartment ten minutes later, Hanna is at the counter with a mug in her hand and my pour-over on the stove. She's in my flannel, feet bare, the living room lamp on.
She hands me the mug. I sniff it, sip it, look at her.
"It's too much cream."
"I know."
"Why did you make it like this?"
"Because I wanted to make one mistake the first time."
"Why."
"So, we'd know we could correct one."
I set the mug down, put my hands on her waist. She sets her mug down next to mine and puts her arms on my forearms. Her hair smells like her shampoo. The hall light is on. The kitchen is quiet.
"I'm home."
"I know."
"Your brother is my best friend."
"I’m so relieved."
"Your mother is my second mother."
"Yes, although to outsiders, that may sound weird." She laughs.
"You're — "
"I know, Ty."
"You're the first thing. You're the first. I'm not — I'm not going to — "
"Ty."
"Yeah."
"Drink your coffee. Fix the cream. Tell me how you want it."
"Okay."
"And then we're going to bed. And tomorrow I'm going to make it right."
"Okay."
The wind goes through the window screen. In the alley someone shuts a dumpster lid. A dog barks three houses down. Somewhere across town, Cal is home. Somewhere across town, Mom Larsen is probably still up, because Mom Larsen probably hasn't slept a full night since this all started. Here in myapartment above an auto parts store on Third, the basil plant I've been keeping alive since I gave up on everything else is keeping itself alive now.
I drink the coffee after I fix the cream.
