Chapter 4: The Weight of a Spoonful
“Hi, Lucas,” I said, forcing a warmth into my voice that felt like forcing air into a flat tire. “Come on in. You must be freezing.”
He stepped inside as if he expected the floorboards to protest under his weight. Mark came forward and offered a hand. “Good to meet you, Lucas.”
Lucas shook it quickly, a brief, fleeting contact, like he was afraid the connection might burn. Then his gaze drifted past my husband, down the hallway, toward the kitchen—toward the smell of roasting turkey—and for a split second, something flashed across his face. It wasn’t joy or excitement. It was a cold, stark calculation. It was the look of a body that had already decided how much it was allowed to want.
Emma kicked off her boots and whispered to me, “He’s just nervous.”
“I can see that,” I whispered back.
Lucas stood motionless in the entryway, waiting for someone to tell him where he was permitted to exist. And in that moment, I didn’t see a college kid. I saw Zoe all over again. The duct-taped shoes. The hoodie in summer. The way hunger grinds you down into a state of relentless, apologetic politeness, because you can’t afford to be anything else.
“The kitchen’s this way,” I said, my voice softening. “You can put your… whatever you’ve got… on that chair.”
