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  He did. “Sorry. Got caught up with stuff. I can’t make it this weekend. It’s my turn to have the girls.”

  “Ah.”

  “I should’ve told you sooner,” Matthew said.

  Stella frowned. “That would’ve been nice. Do you not want to come visit me? Is that it? Are you worried about meeting Tristan? Because we could arrange it for when he’s with his dad.”

  “Of course I want to visit you. Don’t say that. You’re overreacting. What can I do? It’s my turn to have the girls.”

  Oh, how she hated being told she was overreacting. “Didn’t you know that when I asked you? You could’ve told me then.”

  “I thought I could rearrange.”

  This rang so false she had to take a moment before she could reply. “Matthew, I’d rather you be honest with me than ever try to save my feelings with a lie. Okay?”

  “I’m not lying about anything.” He sounded mad, and she didn’t really care. She was mad too.

  “I’d rather have a no than a maybe that you already know is a no. For anything.”

  Matthew sighed. “It wasn’t a no when I said I would check. Okay?”

  “Okay.” This had the feeling of becoming a second non-argument, so Stella changed the subject toward something lighter.

  After a bit more awkwardness, the tension eased. They joked. They laughed. They shared stories about their days—Stella had some funny things to share about her job and the sorts of crazy photos she’d been asked to retouch. Matthew spoke with fondness of some of his students in the adult education class.

  “We’re doing poetry,” he said. “Limericks. Hey, it’s an art form, really.”

  “What’s your favorite? The only one I know is about Nantucket.”

  “All the good ones are about Nantucket,” Matthew said.

  He talked more about the class, how his students had gone from barely being able to put together coherent sentences to publishing pieces in a chapbook. The obvious pride in his voice moved her.

  “You’ve made a difference in their lives,” she told him. “That must feel so amazing.”

  Matthew was quiet for a few seconds. “I don’t think of it that way. I’m just trying to show them there’s more than one way to look at the world.”

  “That’s a beautiful and important thing to do for anyone, Matthew.”

  “It’s not... Thank you. I guess I never thought of it as being beautiful. Or important.”

  “Well,” Stella said, “it is.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Stella’s heart jumped at the familiar boop-boop tone of an incoming Kik. Up to her elbows in dishsoap suds, she needed a minute or so to dry her hands and fish her phone from her pocket, then to open the app, but when she did, she burst into low laughter. Matthew had sent her a picture of his dinner—macaroni and cheese. With ketchup. A hot dog, sans bun, peeked at her from the corner of the shot.

  Father of the year, she typed and watched the tiny D turn to an R.

  Matthew is typing, the app said at the top of the screen. What? It’s delicious. And has all the food groups.

  Stella, in reply, took a picture of the inside of her oven, the chicken and potatoes baking inside. Also her table’s two settings. The bowl of salad and basket of rolls. She sent them all, one, two, three, without commentary.

  Nice, Matthew said. Next time you come to Chicago, will you make me chicken?

  If you’re good. How are the girls?

  Louisa has a cold. Beatrice is having a fight with her best friend. God help me when they get to be teenagers.

  Stella laughed, but ruefully. Tristan had come home from school an hour or so ago and pounded right up the stairs to disappear into his room without little more than a word for her. He’d been up there ever since, not a peep, which she had to admit was better than the bass-beat thump of his music being played too loud or the steady back-and-forth thud of the weights or treadmill.

  What’s on the agenda for tonight? she typed.

  The D became an R, but Matthew didn’t type. Stella watched the screen for a minute longer than necessary, then put the phone back in her pocket so she could finish scrubbing the rice cooker and Crock-Pot crocks—the ones she’d asked Tristan to take care of last night. He’d been out with Mandy when she got home, so she couldn’t yell at him about forgetting, or deliberately refusing to do it. And she’d been too tired to do it herself until now, which was why now it was like completing an archaeological dig.

  “Tristan!” she called as she rinsed the final bits of crusty rice and soggy carrots into the drain strainer so she could empty it into the trash. “Dinner in half an hour! Gather up your laundry and bring it down!”

  No reply seemed to be the theme of the night. Frowning, Stella went to the bottom of the stairs to shout again. This time, the muffled shout from her son’s room seemed to be an answer of some sort, and, too weary to make herself climb the stairs, she went back to the kitchen.

  Boop-boop.

  Movies and popcorn at home. Early morning tomorrow. Museum for a birthday party, then bowling party in the afternoon.

  Busy girls, Stella typed. Have fun.

  She paused, then added, Call me later, when they’re in bed?

  D.

  R.

  No answer.

  Stella waited.

  Matthew is typing...

  He typed for a long time, with no message coming through. Until at last: I’ll try.

  She knew better than to let it sting her, but it still did. Stella put her phone away, vowing not even to look at it again even if it did boop-boop at her. She poured herself a glass of wine, then busied herself sorting the piles of mail and cleaning up the disaster of her kitchen, until the timer on the oven went off, signaling that the chicken was done. She shouted for Tristan, then again when he didn’t answer or come down. A third time, her voice cracking, blood pressure rising, and finally he thumped down the stairs with a tread like an elephant and flung himself into his chair with a sigh so heavy it was as if she were asking him to stab himself in the eyes with the fork.

  Boop-boop.

  Stella ignored it, but another ping a moment later made it impossible for her to pretend she hadn’t heard it. Tristan scowled as she set the chicken and potatoes on the table, then pulled out her phone. He didn’t say anything, though.

  Louisa forgot her inhaler. And I think she might have a fever.

  Do you have a thermometer?

  Yeah.

  Take her temp, Stella said. Then you’ll know.

  “Tristan,” she said aloud. “Get the iced tea. C’mon, I shouldn’t even have to ask you.”

  “I don’t even want to eat this,” he muttered.

  Stella looked up from her phone, where Matthew had not yet replied. “Excuse me?”

  “I told you, I’m going out with Mandy tonight. Remember? I have to leave in, like, ten minutes.”

  She had forgotten, but shouldn’t have been surprised. Friday night, no reason for him to hang around at home with his mother. Still... “Where are you going? You don’t even want to eat dinner first?”

  “We’re going to see a movie. We’ll get some pizza or something after.”

  “And after that?” Stella asked slowly, looking at the meal she’d prepared. Admittedly, it was no gourmet fare. It hadn’t taken hours or anything, but if she’d known he wasn’t going to be home she’d have made herself a sandwich and been done with it.

  “Probably hang out somewhere.”

  She pursed her mouth at this. Her phone booped, but she ignored it to focus on her son. “Where?”

  Tristan shrugged. “Don’t know.”

  “Well, you need to know, Tristan. I don’t want you just wandering the streets looking for a place to go.” She paused. “Why not co