Page 293 of What We Brave
"Yes sir."
He nods once and walks inside.
Reid exhales like he's been holding his breath for a week. His hand is still on my knee. I don't move it.
"Do you think she'll burn them?" Reid finally asks.
"Doesn't matter if she burns them or not. We're going to sit there and eat every bit with a smile on our fucking faces, agreed?"
Reid snorts. "Fine. I'm not getting on her bad side." He presses his lips together. "That went…okay. Right? I mean he didn't tell us we were going to hell and try and run us out of town, so…?"
"That's a low fucking bar."
"Yeah. But hey, there's nowhere to go from here but up. Right?"
54
LAINE
The grilled cheese is burnt. Obviously. Because it's Tuesday and my mother is cooking, and those two things have never once combined into edible food. This is a woman who has built literacy programs in four countries, organized supply chains across mountain ranges, and once talked a Honduran customs officer out of confiscating an entire shipping container of medical supplies. She cannot make toast.
I love her so much it actually hurts to look at her standing there with the spatula.
Reid takes a bite and the crunch is audible from across the table. "Mary. Incredible."
"It's burnt."
"It's artisanal."
"Reid, I can see the char."
"That's flavor, Mary. That's depth."
Blake is eating his with the silent determination of a man who has eaten worse in worse places and will not be defeated by a sandwich. He chews. Swallows. Takes a sip of water. Goes back in. No commentary. No complaints. Just methodical, relentless consumption.
That's my guy. Death before dishonoring the host's cooking.
Dad's on his second sandwich. He's been eating Mom's food for thirty-six years. At this point I think his taste buds have just surrendered. Accepted their fate. Gone gently into that good night.
"David, tell them it's burnt. They're being ridiculous."
Dad looks at his plate. Looks at Mom. That flat, unreadable expression I spent eighteen years trying to crack.
"I've had worse," he says.
"When?"
A pause. "That time in Bogotá. The fish."
Mom gasps. "That was food poisoning, David.That doesn't count?—"
"I'm just saying. On the spectrum?—"
"There is nospectrum— it's a grilled cheese?—"
Reid is grinning. Blake's mouth does the thing — that barely-there twitch that only people who know him would catch. And Mom is swatting Dad's arm and Dad is taking another bite with that perfectly neutral face, and for about ten seconds it feels like us. Like my family. Like nothing is broken.
Then Mom's eyes catch mine across the table and the warmth flickers. Just for a second. This tiny recalibration — like she's remembering the terms and conditions of how we interact now. She smiles. It's a good smile. Warm. Kind.
