Page 121 of Borrowed Pain
"Perfect," I said, meaning it. "Maybe a pinch more black pepper, but the oregano balance is right."
"See?" Ma turned to address the room. "Rowan has a palate. Unlike certain sons who think everything needs hot sauce."
"Hot sauce improves most foods," Michael protested. "It's not my fault you all have sensitive taste buds."
"Michael puts hot sauce on ice cream," Miles told me, his voice mock-serious. "We've been trying to stage an intervention for years."
Miles caught my eye across the kitchen island, his smile soft with affection and amusement.
"Wine?" Alex asked, holding up the bottle we'd brought.
"Please," I said. The Chianti was what Miles predicted—rich enough to complement Ma's sauce without overpowering the other flavors.
"To Sunday dinners," Alex said, raising his glass.
"To family," Ma corrected.
We clinked glasses across the crowded kitchen. Through the window, I spotted Marcus's car pulling into the driveway, headlights sweeping across the rain-slicked pavement.
The front door opened, releasing a burst of cooler air and the sound of Marcus's voice calling hello to the house in general. Within minutes, the kitchen reached capacity—nine adults moving around each other with the practiced efficiency of people who'd learned to share space without stepping on toes.
Ma's dining table could seat six comfortably or eight with strategic elbow management. Since I arrived, they managed to squeeze in one more.
Conversation flowed naturally around the table, weaving in our various areas of expertise. The family treated each person's professional knowledge as a resource for collective problem-solving.
"Miles, how's the new practice developing?" Ma asked. "Are you getting the referrals you hoped for?"
"More than I expected," Miles said. "Apparently, testifying before Congress builds credibility with medical trauma survivors. Dr. Humphries from Johns Hopkins has been sending referrals, and three other trauma specialists have asked about consultation on their difficult cases."
Dinner dissolved into the familiar choreography of McCabe family cleanup. Miles and I fell into the rhythm we'd developed at home, moving around each other without negotiation or collision.
"Leftovers?" Miles asked, already wrapping the remaining garlic bread in foil while I scraped plates into the disposal.
"Always," Ma said, emerging from the pantry with an armload of containers. "James, take some sauce home. Alex, you're getting salad whether you want it or not. Michael—"
"I know, I know," Michael called from the living room where he was helping Dorian organize wine glasses. "Enough pasta to feed Luna for a week."
"Luna doesn't eat pasta," Alex pointed out.
"Luna will eat anything that falls on the floor," Michael corrected. "Including pasta."
The drive home unfolded in comfortable quiet. Miles handled the radio while I navigated streets slick with spring rain, our hands touching across the center console during red lights.
"Your stress-baking is becoming legendary," Miles said, adjusting the volume on some indie station he'd programmed into my car's presets. "Ma asked if you'd consider making those shortbread cookies for Marcus's birthday next month."
"I'll add it to my calendar." The words came easily.Next month.Future plans assumed we'd still be here and still be us.
We pulled into the Georgetown warehouse district as the streetlights flickered on, casting amber pools across wet pavement. Our building stood solid against the evening sky—red brick weathered but enduring, windows glowing with the warm light we'd left on in the kitchen.
"Home," Miles said softly.
Home.
It wasn't the physical space—though I'd grown to love our converted loft with its exposed beams and Miles's organized chaos claiming half the dining table. It was the certainty that someone would notice if I didn't come back. The knowledge that my absence would create a hole.
We climbed the stairs to our front door. Miles reached for his keys while I balanced the containers of leftovers Ma had insisted we take.
"I should prep for tomorrow's consultation," I said, setting the food on the kitchen counter beside the French press. "Corporate fraud cases require—"
