Courtney Walsh

Raya’s face looks as though the government just announced aliens are real and some of them are planning to try out for the Olympic downhill skiing team.

“The photos on the internet?” Dallas asks. “When did you see those?”

“I’m old, I’m not stupid. I have TikTok.”

I laugh. I don’t even have TikTok.

Then, to his grandma, “Are you comfortable? I think you should sit in the living room.”

He reaches out to help her and she smacks his hand away. “I think you should go sit in traffic.”

It’s not the kind of smile that would alert the paparazzi, but it’s the kind of smile that a person could hold onto. The kind that could make, say, a man in a tough spot hope that things could turn around again. Like an anchor.

A safe space to land.

I feel confident that ninety-seven percent of him has no idea the effect his nonchalance has on a girl like me.

The other three percent knows exactly what it’s doing.

Culinary expert James Beard once famously said, “Food is our common ground.” And here we are, in the kitchen—the heart of the home.

James Beard also said that if he were ever forced to try cannibalism, he might manage it if there was enough tarragon around. So not all of his quotes are quotable.

I notice Dallas is also copied on the email and wish I felt comfortable enough with him to reach out and ask what he thinks of Alicia’s “date” ideas. Most are things I cannot imagine Dallas doing, even if we were in love. I mean, what man wants to “sit in a bookstore and read while holding hands and drinking coffee for at least an hour”?

Because that’s number ten on this list.

Now that I think about it, I wish I did know a man who wanted to do that with me. I’d marry him on the spot.

“You’re going to be fine. I promise. I can’t control a lot, but I can make sure you don’t get left alone, or have to fend for yourself.”

Raya is almost always right.

Which means she’s sometimes wrong, I try to tell myself.

“You don’t have to worry about me either,” I say.

She doesn’t look at me. “Someone has to.”

The words reach inside of me and squeeze. Is this what it’s like to not be alone?