Page 26 of Brother in Law with Benefits

"I don't have a look."

"Seven letters. 'Temporary state of chaos.' Starts with T."

"Turmoil."

"That fits." She writes it in. "You've seemed in a state of turmoil lately."

"Work stuff."

"Mm-hmm." She sets down her pen. "Timeline for the next project?"

"Late September."

"That's soon."

"Two months away."

"Still soon." She folds her hands. "You'll miss my last chemo treatment."

The guilt is immediate. "I can push the start date—"

"No." She reaches across and pats my hand. "You can't hold your life for me. I'll be fine. Sophie will be here." She looks at me steadily. "The question is whether you will be."

She goes upstairs for her nap. I close my laptop.

I pull up David's email and don't respond to it. I sit there instead, in the quiet kitchen, and do the math I've been avoiding since I read the subject line. Four weeks gone already. Eight left. Twelve total — exactly three months, exactly what I told her on day one.

Except back then it was a plan with room in it. Now it's a flight number, and there's no more maybe in it anywhere, and I think about the conversation I'm going to have to have tonight and every reason I could give her for not having it yet

I could wait until tomorrow. Let her have one more easy evening before I hand her something she's going to have to carry.

I know exactly what that impulse is. I've used it before, in other contexts, with other people — the soft, reasonable-sounding argument for delay that's really just cowardice wearing a better coat. I've watched myself do it in the field, holding onto bad news a day longer than necessary because the person receiving it deserved one more good night's sleep, and I've watched it always cost more than it saved.

I'm not going to do that to her. I tell myself that with more conviction than I currently feel.

***

Sophie arrives at six-thirty.

I've been pacing since six, which is not information I'm going to offer to anyone. When I hear her car in the driveway, I make myself sit down on the couch like a person who was just sitting here naturally.

She lets herself in with the key I gave her last week. Sees me in the living room and smiles, and I forget the Brazil email for approximately ten seconds.

"Hey."

"Hey."

She crosses to me and I pull her in and kiss her like I haven't seen her in weeks. She melts into it, hands in my shirt, and for a minute everything else recedes.

"Missed you," I say against her mouth. I pull back to look at her. "You seem tired."

"I'm fine." She studies my face. "You seem tense."

"I'm fine."

"Grant."

I should tell her about the email. I'm going to tell her about the email. I kiss her instead — hard and desperate, the kind of kiss that's trying to answer a question she hasn't asked yet — and she pulls back.