Page 111 of October
Dad followed him. He smiled, but there was a softness in his face that held a kind of ache.
"Well," he said gently, "it's time Thomas. You're back home now. You've got your rhythm again. Everyone's okay."
Thomas didn't look up. He stood at the stove, hunched slightly, chopping herbs with more force than necessary, like the cutting board had insulted him.
"No," he said, barely above a murmur. "You're not leaving."
Dad brows pulled together. "Son—"
"No." The knife hit the board too hard. "You're not leaving."
He moved too quickly, stirring the pot beside him with a sharpness that sent water sloshing over the edge. The steam blurred his glasses. His jaw clenched, You're just tired. Sit down. I'm making that pasta you like."
I stood at the other end of the room, frozen mid-step, watching the way Thomas's shoulders tightened. Dad didn't move.
"I'm not leaving your life, Thomas," he said softly. "Just the house."
"I don't care." Thomas's voice cracked, barely holding together. "You're not leaving....me"
Silence pressed in. The air felt dense.
My heart ached for him, for the boy in the man, the one who had clung to my father like the last piece of safe ground during a storm. Dad stepped forward, slow and steady, like approaching something breakable. He placed a warm hand on Thomas's back.
"Look at everything you've rebuilt," he said, voice low and full. "Look at what you've made here. This is your life now. Your family. You don't need me in the next room to keep doing it right."
Thomas didn't answer. He kept stirring like the motion alone might hold something together. Then finally, his voice, so quiet I almost missed it: "I want you in the next room."
A pause. "Ilikeknowing you're there."
Dad's smile faltered but held. "I'm only a call away. Always." He leaned in just a little closer. "And if you make that terrible chicken again, Iwillfly back and stage an intervention."
That made Thomas snort, reluctantly. The tension didn't leave, not entirely, but it softened at the edges.
When he left, the silence felt thick but Thomas came and sat beside me on the floor, where Lola was stacking cups andAlice helping her. He leaned his head on my shoulder and said, "He made the world feel safer."
"He did," I whispered. "But so did you," I nudged his arm gently, our shoulders pressed together as the girls giggled beside us. "And he's a better cook," I said, with a smirk playing on my lips.
Thomas turned his head slowly, mock offense lighting his eyes. "Wow. Betrayal in my own kitchen?"
I laughed, leaning into him. "You make great pasta. He just... doesn't burn the garlic."
He squinted at me. "One time. I burnt it one time."
I kissed his cheek, still smiling. "I'm just saying—if he opens a restaurant, we're booking the first table."
He shook his head, then rested his forehead against mine. "You're lucky I love you more than my ego."
"I know," I whispered, brushing his hand with mine. "But seriously... I'll miss him."
"So will I," he said, quieter now. "But I'm still making dinner tonight. Burnt garlic and all."
***********
I made it a habit, those late afternoons. I'd tell myself I was just going to have lunch with Thomas at the shelter but really, I was going for more than sandwiches and conversation.
It had become a kind of ritual. I'd show up just past noon, perfume-smudged notebook in hand, hair tied back, the scent of vetiver or bergamot still clinging to my wrists from the morning's experiments. Thomas would already be there, usually crouched near a kennel or balancing two bowls of food in one hand while wrangling a leash in the other. He always lit up when he saw me, in that quiet way he did, eyebrows lifting, shoulders easing, like my presence settled something in him.
We'd sit on the back steps once the rush was over, legs stretched out in the sun, dogs padding lazily around us. I'd hand him whatever I'd brought—sometimes lentil soup, sometimes aslightly crushed sandwich—and he'd pretend to be impressed every single time.
