Page 26 of The Last Road Trip

“Right,” I say. “Let’s vote: Chinese or pizza?”

“Mom!” Coris calls from the kitchen. We ordered Chinese food, and she’s in charge of getting everything together. “Are there forks in any of these boxes? I only count two for our takeout, and I am not sharing with Maren.”

“Check the box on the kitchen counter, the one with the blue tape.”

“Which box on the kitchen counter with blue tape? There are two.”

“Check both,” I shout. My children are adults and capable of searching for a fork on their own.

Turns out, the forks were in the second box, wrapped in dish towels. Coris brings out all of the takeout containers, silverware and plates. I help her so she doesn’t have to make trips. Grabbing a fork Coris unpacked, I bring it back to the living room and hand it to Coris, who immediately uses it to spear a piece of tofu from Maren’s container.

“That’s mine,” Maren says.

“You weren’t eating it.”

“I was about to.”

Kwemby has claimed the armchair by the window with his own container. He doesn’t grab a plate. The food is from the place two blocks from here, which Maren picked out. She has already located every restaurant within a fifteen-minute walk of my new address and ranked them by category. She presented me with the list last week in a text message, and it was eight items long. I told her she’d have to narrow the radius down to a five-minute walk for our future orders, because my knees aren’t what they used to be. She promised she’d filter the list for me tomorrow.

I lower myself onto the couch between them, Coris on my left with her legs already draped across my lap, Maren on my right tucking herself against the armrest. The container is warm against my palms. I balance it on my knee and reach for a fork.

“The TV goes on the dresser,” I say.

Coris makes a noise of protest.

“My apartment,” I say. “My dresser.”

“She makes a compelling argument,” Kwemby says.

Coris points her fork at him. “You’re supposed to be neutral.”

“I’m agreeing with the person whose apartment it is,” he says.

Maren tells us about her internship, something about shadowing a junior analyst and getting to experience a proper project by late summer. Coris interrupts twice with unsolicited opinions about finance as a career, then pivots to questions about the adoption process at the animal shelter I work at, because she’d like a dog. We go back and forth about the pros and cons. Kwemby asks one question about differences between large and medium dogs compared to their energy levels, and Coris talks for four more minutes with genuine enthusiasm. Meanwhile, I eat my food and listen.

At some point the light outside the window has shifted entirely into evening. The single lamp in the corner makes the cream walls appear warmer. I might paint over them eventually, or I might not. Either way, it’s my choice.

“You need a rug,” Coris announces. “I said it before and I’ll say it again.”

“I heard you the first time,” I say.

“I’m just making sure.”

I look around the room. The jewelry box is on the wall in the hallway, the cedar visible from where I’m sitting. Inside is my ancestral ring. Kwemby had hung it for me while we ordered food. Through the kitchen doorway, the blue mug sits to the left of the coffeemaker, handle facing out. The bookshelf is empty, waiting for the BOOKS box I haven’t opened yet.

I take a bite of my food. It’s good.

Chapter 17

Harriet: Two Years Later

The shelter smells of bleach and wet dog, a combination I barely notice anymore. I push through the glass front door into the late afternoon air and stop on the concrete step. I need a moment to breathe out the heavy weight of all that feeding, cleaning, and sitting on the floor with a German shepherd mix. He’s been with us for five weeks now, yet he still flinches every time someone walks past his cage. Either way, I’m incredibly thankful for Beatrix—my boss—being able to hire me part-time.

Then I see Kwemby’s car idling at the curb.

He’s already out of it by the time I reach the bottom of the step, coming around the hood with unhurried movement. He opens the passenger door and stands beside it.

“You didn’t tell me you were coming,” I say.