Page 40 of Brother in Law with Benefits

"Now I'm terrified," he says. "But I'm here. I think that counts for something."

It counts for everything.

I put down my coffee. Cross the kitchen. Stand in front of him. "I'm scared too. I'm scared you'll stay for the wrong reasons and wake up in six months and resent me. I'm scared I'm not worth—" I stop.

"Not worth what?"

I don't finish the sentence. But he hears it anyway. I can see it in his face — the careful attention he gives everything.

"You are worth it," he says quietly. "You've always been worth it."

Patty calls from the living room. "Are you two done having your feelings? I'm hungry and the eggs are getting cold!"

We look at each other.

"Coming, Ma!" Grant calls back.

***

I stay two hours. We go over Patty's medication schedule, meal prep the week's food together — bland, easy food that won't trigger her nausea. Chicken soup. Scrambled eggs. Grant is a surprisingly competent cook when not emotionally distracted, which I choose not to comment on.

When I'm washing up the prep dishes, Bonnie texts.

Bonnie:How's it going?

Me:Better. We talked.

Bonnie:And?

Me:He's staying. Probably. He needs to make one more phone call first.

Bonnie:Are you okay with that?

I look through the doorway into the living room. Grant is showing Patty something on his phone — a photo, looks like. She's laughing. He's smiling a real smile, unguarded, the kind I've been cataloguing because they're rare and they hit differently every time.

Me:Yeah. I'm okay.

Bonnie:Good. Now stop being an idiot and let yourself be happy.

Me:Working on it.

Bonnie:Oh, has anyone told Chris yet?

I stop mid-scrub, water still running over a plate I've already rinsed twice.

Me:No. Not yet.

Bonnie:Sophie.

Me:I know.

Bonnie:I'm not trying to ruin your good mood. I just think that's a conversation that gets worse the longer nobody has it.

She's not wrong, which is currently my least favorite thing about Bonnie. I haven't let myself think about Chris finding out, from anyone, in any way that isn't Grant and me choosing the moment ourselves, because every version of it I've tried topicture ends somewhere I don't want to look directly at yet. Small towns don't keep secrets on anyone's schedule but their own.

I turn off the water and don't look at the succulent-adjacent part of my brain that's already started rehearsing how that conversation might go, because none of the versions I come up with are good ones, and I have exactly zero interest in borrowing trouble on a day that's otherwise been kind to me.

Me:I'll figure it out.