“More like the rat in Ratatouille,” Mike said, droll and patient.
“You two are getting Kraft Mac n Cheese if you don’t stop.”
Her stomach growled audibly. Dylan pointed at it and said, “The baby speaks! She defends me!”
“Are all audible bodily functions a commentary on you, Dylan? If so...” Mike bit his lips, holding back.
“Let’s just eat!” Laura declared. Her stomach growled again. “I’m starving!” No one had cooked her a homemade meal in, well—not since Dylan’s meatballs. It felt good to be pampered, cared for, taken care of.
And the food was divine.
So was the company. Somehow, the three of them fell back into an easy banter, talking and laughing with abandon, yet comfortable with silence. So much to say. So little pressure to say it. Time might heal all, she thought, if they never said a word. Just living and being and coexisting might do the trick.
Not really. She could hope, though. Food, though— food had a universal language that said, “Dig in. Eat. Relax. Enjoy.”
And she did.
Beep! Something that sounded like a clothes dryer went off. “Oh! Your quilt!” Mike said, jumping up from the table and walking down the hallway.
“My quilt?”
“Your grandma’s quilt. Mike’s washing it a few times. Part of your stuff we hauled home.”
A grateful warmth filled her. Blinking back tears, she said, “Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me. Thank Mike.”
She reached for Dylan’s hand and squeezed. “No. Thank you. You saved me. Saved us.”
He shook his head, eyes serious. “I almost ruined us. And I hurt you deeply.” Hearing it from him made a difference; she had tried to convince herself it didn’t matter, but it did. Mike returned to the table, a look of puzzlement, then alarm, on his face.
“Everything OK?”
“We’re getting serious,” Dylan muttered.
Mike’s face shifted to dawning understanding. “Oh. Got it.” He pushed his plate back and leaned forward on the table, chin in hand. “Is this the part where I get down on my knees and beg Laura to forgive me for being such a ridiculous, cravenly afraid asshole?”
“That’s my role!” Dylan protested. “I look really good eating humble pie. Lately, it’s my specialty. Shows off my good side.” He tilted his face to the left, a sad smirk coloring the discussion.
“You can both play that role,” she joked. Except she wasn’t joking. They all knew it. “No,” she added, shaking her head. “All three of us can play that role, because I did to you what you did to me.” She winced. “With higher stakes.”
No one argued. That made her feel even worse. Here we go, she thought. Cards on the table. Hearts on sleeves. It was now or never, and clichés aside, if she wasn’t brutally honest with herself and with them, she could never, in good conscience, forgive herself.
Which was the most important person she needed to extend forgiveness to.
“Can I say something, Laura?” Mike interrupted. He stood slowly, with great deliberation, inch by inch rising to stand over her and Dylan, the table miniscule and unimportant, the air filled with intent.
“Sure,” she squeaked.
He looked at Dylan. “I need to say this to you, too.” Dylan looked askance, uncertain and a bit worried, mirroring Laura’s own internal state.
Mike sighed. “I love you both.” He bent down and touched Laura’s belly. “And I love her, too. We have lots of words we could utter and exchange, decode and expunge, but none of those words matter as much as these: I’m sorry.” He looked deeply into her eyes, then Dylan’s. “I love you.” Again, at both, careful and measured, meted out equally. “I love this. I’ve missed this.”
His hands swept over the table, gesturing at the room, trying to capture the love and laughter and comfort in his hands. Laura knew he couldn’t, because it wasn’t a thing. It was something the three of them created when they were together, an alchemy they couldn’t force. It just was. “I want it all, for the rest of my life.” He bowed his head, releasing Laura’s swell. “I don’t have any better words.”
“There aren’t any.” Dylan’s voice was thick with emotion as he stood. He and Mike moved to Laura, who volleyed between them, head bouncing left and right to take this all in. With one on each side of her, she struggled to understand what was going on as they both knelt down.
“I don’t know what to say,” she admitted. And she didn’t. Nearly five months of wants and needs and luscious thoughts poured into her now, less from passion and more from a knowing love. A place of goodness and completion, of welcomed desire, of being treasured and assured not by words or by touch but by presence.