Melissa brings orange juice. Fresh-squeezed. She does it herself. At six in the morning. Before she drives over.
Ben brings the kids.
And I make breakfast.
Eggs. Toast. Bacon. Pancakes for Poppy. Chocolate chip. Shaped like sharks for Jonah.
I make enough for everyone.
Because they asked.
Last Sunday, while I was flipping pancakes, Melissa came into the kitchen.
She stood next to me at the stove.
“Can I help?” she asked.
I looked at her.
“You can do the bacon,” I said.
She picked up a fork.
She stood there next to me. Turning bacon. At my stove.
We didn’t say anything for a while.
Then she said, “Morgan.”
“Yeah?”
“That robe,” she said. “The silk one.”
I looked down. I was wearing it. Over my jeans.
“Do you think,” Melissa said slowly, “it would be okay if I borrowed it sometime? For a date night? Ben’s taking me to dinner in Duck. Our anniversary. I don’t have anything nice.”
