Her reply came several minutes later.
I’ll be at my apartment. Don’t make me ask twice.
I set the phone down.
Rachel watched me. “She loves you.”
“I know.”
“Do you love her?”
The question should have been simple. A week ago, it would have been. I loved Noelle’s steadiness, her intelligence, the way she remembered people’s birthdays and gave direct answers.
I loved the life we had planned because it seemed safe. After Rachel, safety had felt like love.
But now I looked at the three children arguing softly over whether a blue crayon was really blue or secretly purple, and all my definitions failed me.
“I care about her deeply,” I said.
Rachel nodded as if that answer hurt exactly as much as honesty should.
The food came. The children ate with bright concentration. Noah offered me one apple slice after studying me for a full minute.
