They had a ritual. Every Thursday, “Family Dinner.” Not because they were related, but because they had chosen each other. They’d sit on that lumpy sofa, pass around a bottle of two-dollar wine, and talk about everything except the future. The future was a rumor. What mattered was now: the way Maggie could make Leo snort milk through his nose, the way Paul would light a cigarette and tilt his head, watching Claire like she was a photograph he was trying to understand.
“You put oregano in the chowder,” Maggie said, laughing. “It tasted like a forest floor.”
The last Thursday was still a raw spot. July 1994. Maggie had gotten a fellowship in Chicago. Leo’s band had broken up, and he was moving back to Ohio. Paul had an offer to shoot for a small paper in Portland. And Claire? Claire had just been promoted to junior editor. She was staying.
“It’s not,” Paul said, and he sounded sincere.
