Page 59 of Only Fate

“That’s my good boy,” she says in the tone as when she tells my dog the same thing.

I open the soup lid, inhale the scent, and turn off the burner.

I steal a cookie, shove it into my mouth, and grip the pot while telling them, “Thank you.”

When I’m in my car, I secure the seat belt around the pot and text Essie again.

No reply.

I go back and forth on what I should do.

On the one hand, I don’t want to overwhelm her.

On the other, I know whatever River went there to tell her was bad.

I want to be there for her, and if I have to use the excuse of not letting good soup go to waste, I’ll use that excuse.

When I get there, none of the lights are on in the main house. I grip the soup pot while strolling down the lit walkway that leads to the back. The sounds of crickets chirping and the rock waterfall cascading into the pool echo through the night.

“Not a good time, my man.” River’s voice startles me.

I stretch my neck to find him slumped on a pool chair, inches from Essie’s door. He must have dragged it across the concrete from the row of others to the door.

“She’s sick.” He leans back and takes a hit of a joint.

I awkwardly hold up the pot. “I brought soup.”

He stares at me, untrusting. “Did my sister ever tell you what happened to her?”

I’m clueless about how to answer, and I scramble for words.

My lack of response confirms I have no idea what he’s referring to. That takes away any luck of River saying a word to me about Essie’s past. It was a test, and I failed.

We’re interrupted by a beam of light when Essie’s front dooropens. River hurriedly snubs out his joint and jumps to his feet when she walks outside.

“River,” she says in a weak voice, “can youpleasetell Mom I’ll talk to her in the morning?—”

She freezes when she sees me. “Adrian, what are you doing here?”

I carefully walk closer to them, like an unwanted door-to-door salesman. “I, uh … brought you soup.”

My heart twists when I see Essie’s face. It’s red and splotchy. I can tell she’s been crying.

She stares at me distantly, her eyes cold and empty. You’d think I was a stranger to her.

Essie isn’t only dealing with a stomach bug now.

No, now, she has the weight of something stronger.

“It’s my grandmother’s recipe,” I continue before she asks me to leave. “Guaranteed to make you feel better.”

I feel like a clown for those last words.

Soup. A Band-Aid. Winning the lottery.

Nothing will help her right now.

River, taking the hint, collects the pot from me.

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