Page 88 of Que Será, Syrah

And no. I don’t think my feelings for Legs justifies my acting counter to what either the law, or my own moral code is telling me is right.

“So?”

“I’mma have to think about it.”

We run the rest of the way without talking—other than random observations about the weather, or the wildlife, or whether or not I need better shoes. (Spoiler: I do)

Finally, when the parking lot comes back into view, Miles asks how I’m feeling. And, in retrospect, I guess what he was really asking about was the run. But that’s not what pops out of my mouth.

“I dunno,” I tell him. “But I think, if you’d asked me a year ago, how I thought my life was going, I’d have told you it was going great—other than being a little boring.”

“Okay. And?”

“Man, I fucking miss boring right now.”

Miles laughs so hard at that, he damn near gives himself a stitch, and ends up practically limping on the way back to the cars.

“It wasn’t that funny,” I point out when he finally settles down.

“Oh, I know,” he agrees. “That’s not why I was laughing.”

“Why then?”

“It’s just…well, it occurred to me, that if what you wanted was a boring life, then you might have picked the wrong girl.”

“Oh. Yeah. Don’t I know it.”

Allegra

It’s early. The morning fog has yet to burn off, and I’m standing in the kitchen, watching the coffee slowly fill the pot and wondering, is it always this slow?

There are reasons why I don’t do mornings. And why I never get up early, unless I absolutely have to—an early shift at work, for example. Having stayed up too late the night before, is not one of them. And at least at work, I can generally count on being surrounded by a chattering flock of early birds.

There’s none of that here. It’s too quiet. It’s too lonely. There’s too much time to think. And morning thoughts? They’re too full of regrets and sharp-edged sorrows, jagged memories, the sharp sting of loss and…ooh, have I mentioned regrets?

This morning is no different than the rest, in that regard.

It’s no surprise that today’s regrets should all circle back to Clay. I have no idea what happened last night, or why I couldn’t help him. I wanted to. I’ll probably always want to. But either I suck at picking the people I want to comfort, or I suck at giving comfort. Or possibly, I just suck.

Rosa, still dressed in a robe, enters the kitchen on a yawn. She pauses when she sees me, and frowns in surprise. “You’re up early.”

I nod and tell her, “I made the coffee.”

Her eyebrows rise. “You know how to make coffee? Sorry, sorry,” she adds when I give her a look. “Of course you do.”

Full disclosure? I really don’t. “First time’s the charm,” I reply with a shrug. “Isn’t that what they say?”

Rosa looks startled. “What?”

“Beginner’s luck?”

Rosa’s gaze travels to the pot, which is still slooowly filling. When it gradually turns dubious (her gaze, not the pot, obvs) I rush to reassure her. “I’m sure it’ll be fine.”

I wave Rosa away when she attempts to help, “I’ve got this. You look tired. Go sit down.” And I start setting out mugs, one for Rosa, one for me, from Nonna’s quirky, eclectic collection of vintage mugs. I pause with a third mug in my hand. “Will Jake want coffee?”

Rosa eyes the coffee maker again and answers, “Maaaybe?” So, I set down the third, and then another for Bee. And that’s all of us.

Over cream, sugar, spoons, I reflect on the fact that Bee and I should shortly be thinking of migrating, finding our own nests, so that Rosa and Jake can fill this one with their own small brood. I think what most infuriates me about Geno’s interference in Rosa’s life is those ten lost years.

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