Page 246 of Wild Card 13

“She’s Lucy,” I sighed finally.

The kitchen went quieter.

Grandma Ruth’s face softened in a way that made her look, for half a second, not smaller but older. Not weak. Never that. Just more human than the force of nature she preferred to be.

“She came to Matt’s,” Grandma said. “And now you bring her coffee.”

I glanced over. “How do you know that?”

Grandma looked offended. “I have sources.”

“Naomi?”

“You don’t know all the people I know.”

Grandpa Hal folded the paper with care. “Marion.”

Grandma Ruth shot him a look. He drank his coffee.

I laughed under my breath and turned back to the stove before my face gave too much away. “I’m not making it a thing.” I cleared my throat. “I’m trying,” I said, quieter.

“We know,” she replied.

I plated breakfast because moving food around was easier than standing in the middle of my grandparents’ kitchen with every feeling I owned exposed beside a pan of mushrooms. Grandma Ruth complained that I gave Grandpa too many potatoes. He joked he was a growing boy. She told him the only direction he was growing was sideways. I laughed, and the sound came out easier than it had before.

For half an hour, the morning was ordinary. The kind I had spent years not appreciating enough because ordinary did not come with lights or stats or crowd noise. Grandma ate half her breakfast and insisted she was full, then stole bacon off my plate when she thought I was not looking. Grandpa asked about practice and listened like line combinations were a weather system he had been tracking since October. I checked the clock twice, not because I wanted to leave, but because the Paper Lantern stop had become part of the structure now.

Run.

Shower.

Breakfast when I could steal it.

Coffee.

Arena.

Lucy’s doorway.

Leave before wanting turned into asking.

At six forty-eight, I stood and carried plates to the sink.

Grandma Ruth started to rise. “I’ll get those.”

“You will sit there and supervise like management.”

Grandpa Hal stood slower, taking his empty mug with him. “I’ll scrape.”

“You will both sit down,” I said. “I have a system.”

Grandma sniffed. “Your system leaves water spots.”

“Then look away.” I cleaned the kitchen while Grandma issued unnecessary instructions and Grandpa pretended not to enjoy it. By seven fifteen, the pans were washed, the counters wiped, and my phone buzzed with a reminder I did not need.

Paper Lantern.

I looked at the screen and felt the ridiculousness of it all lift in my chest.