“Fine.” He grabs his phone and types a few words. “Happy?”
“I was, about five minutes ago. In fact, I was ecstatic about today. But then I find a squatter on my porch and I’m worried I might have to call the cops and have a bunch of cars on my lawn again.”
“What were you going to do today?”
“Write.”
“Another depressing love story where there’s no love?”
“No.”
Bernadette brings a glass of orange juice onto the porch, rubbing her eyes. “Did I miss it?”
“You did,” Leo says, making room for her on the swing.
“Leo! What are you doing here? Did you sleep there?”
“I did. Wanted to make sure you weren’t lying to me about the sunrise. And you weren’t. It was spectacular.” Bernadette beams at him as he gives her the last bit of his duvet.
“My mom makes pancakes. And bacon sometimes.” She might as well hang a FOR SALE sign on me.
“Oh jeez. It’s six forty-five. Is Arthur up?” I leave the two of them swinging on the porch and switch into morning mode. Once Arthur is in the bathroom, presumably making progress toward getting ready, I change into my running shorts and sneakers. Today is still a writing day, and I’m not going to get derailed by Leo Vance on my porch.
I come downstairs and find Leo and Bernadette sitting at the counter in a comfortable silence. Leo eyes my legs again and smiles like we have an inside joke now. I make more coffee, mainly because I’ve spilled most of mine. I start frying bacon and scrambling eggs. I have three English muffins left, which would have been perfect if I didn’t have a breakfast crasher. I decide to go without.
Arthur comes downstairs clean but with the look of sleep still on him. “Mom said you were here. Why?”
“He wanted to see if the sun really came up on our porch,” says Bernadette. “Which it does,” she adds with a conspiratorial smile to Leo.
“The sun comes up everywhere, dummy.”
“Arthur,” I say, overly sternly, like suddenly I’m pretending to be Mrs. Cleaver. I place the steaming breakfast plates in front of the three of them and hear myself say, “Refill?”
The kids shoot me a look. “Refill,” in the form of a command, not a question, was something Ben used to bark over breakfast. He’d slide his mug toward me, sometimes looking up, and sometimes not. I’d reply, “Of course” as I poured, and someone who didn’t live in our house might have thought I meant, “Of course I’d be happy to pour more coffee in your cup so you can drink it.” Those who had been simmering in this pot for a while would hear the undertone: “Since I made the breakfast and I’m going to clean up all the dishes and you’re really just going to sit there the entire day, of course I’ll take it the rest of the way for you and fill up your coffee too, you lazy . . .”
“Sure,” says Leo, who has probably never poured his own coffee, so he doesn’t know this is a loaded topic.
“Did you get wet sleeping on the porch? Seems kind of fun but also soggy,” says Bernadette.
“Half fun and half soggy. Plus there’s a reason people sleep on mattresses instead of wood.” Leo stretches his arms in the air like he’s trying to work the kinks out, exposing two inches of his perfectly toned abs. I have to look away.
“Well, you’ll be back at your house tonight, right?” asks Arthur.
“Sure.” Leo’s looking for something at the bottom of his mug. “It’s an apartment. But it’s not that much more comfortable there.”
Okay, here comes the pity party for the guy who lives in a penthouse. I need to regain control of the morning. “Guys. Clear your plates and grab your backpacks. Bernie, you have art today so bring your portfolio thing.” They get up and carry plates and find their stuff.
Bernadette gives Leo yet another hug. “Come back sometime for another sunrise. Or even a picnic. It’s fun here, I swear.” Honestly, we are going to have to redo the whole talk about stranger danger.
“Thanks,” he says. “And the bacon’s good too.”
We’re standing at the top of the steps to the garage, door open and backpacks on. Leo’s not budging. “So, maybe Weezie can send a car for you?” I suggest.
“Right. I’ll text her,” he says, not reaching for his phone.
* * *
? ? ?
I drive my kids to school and return home through my tunnel of magnolia blooms. Leo’s back on the porch swing, wrapped in his duvet. I park in the garage and gather my thoughts. After a series of deep breaths, I head upstairs into the kitchen. He’s moved his plate to the sink, which is frankly more than I expected.