I feel Joyce’s presence at the table behind me, and I can hear her sorting through some things in her purse. I know she needs to leave soon, so I’m hoping she will. As much as it felt good to have her be proud, it also feels uncomfortable having her watch me make pancakes. There’s always this look in her eye, something unsure.
“Paige,” she says. I stop stirring and shut my eyes for a moment. Uncertainty is about to be voiced, I think. I wipe my arm over my forehead as I turn, pretending to have splashed something on my face. I don’t even know why I do that, other than I just need to be busy, to do something with my hands. I should have kept the bowl in them.
“Yeah?” I ask, just as I would if she were about to ask me to reach something on a shelf or pick up milk at the store. That’s not what this is, though. I know it.
“I need to ask you to do something for me,” she says. Milk? Shelf? Please? Anything, but…
“Sure, Joyce,” I smile.
She takes a deep breath while she pulls her things back into her purse, her words paused, sitting right on the cusp while she straightens for her day. It only takes a few seconds, but the torture of the wait feels like forever. When her eyes meet mine, they level me a little, and I turn around to grab the bowl, then face her again, holding it in front of me, like it’s a shield. I stir, my ears focusing on the rhythmic sound of my spoon. I wonder if she can tell how nervous I am right now? Her soft smile at me tells me she can.
“Paige, Houston has a really big heart, and his capacity to love is maybe one of the things I’m most proud of,” she says. I keep stirring, my eyes on her, my focus on the tense muscle of my forearm. Stirring. I’m stirring.
“He’s an amazing guy,” I say. I had to say something. I don’t know why that’s what I chose, but there was nothing else ready to come out. He’s an amazing guy. I sound so stupid. She smiles anyway; I’m pretty sure because she knows I’m still nervous around her. I’ve never really cared about winning someone over, but Joyce—I want her to like me.
“He is,” she agrees, her expression warm. Thank you, Joyce, for taking pity on my nerves. “My son cares for you. He cares…a lot,” she says. My forearm is cramping, so I switch hands. Stirring. “Paige, he will love you, and it will be…” she pauses, looking for the right word.
Amazing.
Beautiful.
A dream.
What I want.
“It will be devastating,” she says. Devastating—such a destructive word. So wounded. There’s nothing happy about devastating. I don’t respond; I’m still caught up in trying to understand how her interpretation of her son’s love for me could be so out of line with my own. “I need you to be sure, Paige. If you think there’s a chance that you’re not…that you’re not ready…for this,” she says, looking up the stairs, up to where Houston and Leah are both existing. Both breathing. Both—they are a both. “You need to let him go. And you need to let him go before it becomes…”
“Devastating,” I whisper, my eyes on the smooth paste in my bowl. I’m no longer hungry.
“I’m sorry to be so direct about it. I almost didn’t have this conversation, but I saw the way you both looked at each other, and I care for you, too, Paige. You’re…” she stops when I interrupt.
“Phenomenal,” I breathe out in a single laugh. Her brow pinches, but she smiles soon after.
“Well, yes. I do think highly of you. I’m not sure what your history is with Cee Cee, but the fact that you stand up to her is something I wish more people in this house would do. But unfortunately, being a part of our small circle requires so much more of you. I just want you to be sure you’re ready. As much as I worry about Houston, I also want to make sure you’re being fair to yourself,” she says.
“What if I am?” I ask. I’m a little surprised to hear my inner voice break the air, and I’m a little afraid, too—like I’m on a balance beam over shark-infested waters. Joyce is still with me, though. And she doesn’t look defensive, or ready to argue. She’s only smiling. “What if…what if I am ready for this, to be in a relationship with your son?”
A blanket of silence falls over us. I can tell Joyce cares for me in the way she takes a long deep breath, her eyes almost smiling. She’s hopeful. But she’s also a mom, a grandmother—and, a widow. All of that makes her guarded against anything that might disrupt the careful routine that has to happen within this house.