“In my yellow bowl.”
His smile came slowly.
“I can do pancakes.”
“You can cook?”
“No.”
“Then this should be healing for both of us.”
We made pancakes in the small kitchen at the recovery residence. Ruth wandered in, declared our batter “structurally suspicious,” and took over flipping. Clara arrived after her shift with strawberries. Denise sent a bottle of sparkling cider and a card that said: Never marry a man who fears hospital rooms.
I laughed until I cried.
That evening, Mark and I walked by the river.
The city lights trembled on the water. My hair was growing back unevenly. My scar pulled when I moved too fast. I had a folder full of follow-up appointments and a future that no longer had a floor plan.
Mark stopped near the railing.
“I have something for you.”
I groaned.
“If it’s a hospital wing, I’m pushing you into the river.”
“It’s not a hospital wing.”
He took a small box from his coat pocket.
My breath stopped.
He saw my expression and immediately said, “Not that.”
I exhaled.
“Good.”
He opened it.
Inside was a key.
I stared.
“To what?”
“An apartment.”
I stepped back.
“Mark.”
“Before you panic, it’s not mine. It’s yours if you want it. Lease in your name. Paid for six months through a patient transition grant that existed long before you met me. After that, you decide. No strings.”
I looked at the key.
Then at him.
“You arranged this?”
