After the End(106)

At the end of today Glen will put down his brushes for the last time—I’m letting him keep the coveralls—and tomorrow Mikayla will pick them up. Like Glen, Mikayla has Down syndrome, and like him, her fine motor skills are good, and she’s interested in the work. It remains to be seen whether my clients will appreciate her renditions of songs from High School Musical as much as I do.

I stop by Blair’s on my way back from work, peeling off my coveralls and leaving them in the van. My hands are covered in tiny dots of paint that disappear in the shower each night, only to be replaced the next day. I like them. I like the tangible proof that I’ve done a hard day’s work—so much more satisfying than a printed report or a page of meeting notes.

I ring the bell. I have a key, but I don’t use it when the kids are home. Blair’s decorated the flat, and a festive wreath hangs on the door, tiny silver bells tied on with red ribbons. The bells jangle as Logan opens the door. He high-fives me. “Down below,” he says, moving his hand to somewhere near his thigh, and then swiping it away before my own hand meets it. “Too slow!” He grins. “Can we play Fortnite?”

“Sure. Where’s Mom?”

“Cooking.” Blair comes into the hall. She’s wearing an apron, and as I kiss her I feel an inappropriate stirring in my jeans. Presumably she feels it, too, because she grins and says the shower’s free if I need it. “Maybe a cold one,” she adds, sotto voce. I laugh.

“What’s funny?” Logan says.

“Nothing. Right, Battle Royale or Save the World?” I follow Logan to the living room.

“We need the TV,” he announces to his sister, who grabs the remote and hugs it to her.

“Hey, Brianna.” I keep it light, but she doesn’t even acknowledge my presence.

“I’m watching something.”

“You’ve been watching it for ages—it’s my turn. Max, tell her.”

I hold up my hands like my back’s against a wall. “Not my house, not my rules, pal. We can play another time.” Logan aims a halfhearted kick at the sofa, then leaves the room, no doubt to moan to Blair about his sister. I sit on the sofa. Brianna stares fiercely at the TV. “How was school?”

Nothing.

“That interesting, huh?” On the TV, a girl with an extraordinarily short skirt is standing on a table in a school cafeteria and shouting something about respect. “This looks good,” I lie. Brianna sighs loudly. She picks up the remote and changes the channel.

“Right, that’s it.” It seems I have reached the end of a tolerance zone I didn’t even know I had. I stand up and switch off the TV. “We’re going out.”

“Have a good time,” she says, in a tone that suggests entirely the opposite.

“No. You and me. We’re going out for waffles. We’re going to talk about this on neutral territory, because it’s making your mom miserable.” Brianna wavers, then. She might not like me dating her mom, but she’s a good kid.

“Fine.” She heaves herself off the sofa. “But I’m not eating anything.”

“Honey.” I pop my head round the kitchen door. “Brianna and I are going for waffles. We won’t be long.”

“You’re—” Blair checks herself. “OK then! Great!”

We go to Butcher & the Burger on Armitage, where the temptation of the custard cart means Brianna can’t stick to her threat. She mutters a thank you because even she isn’t rude enough to ignore the heaped plate I just bought her. We sit on chrome stools, and I try to work out what I’m going to say to this angry teen, now that I have her here. As it turns out, she gets there first.

“I don’t want another dad. I’ve already got one.”

It’s hardly a surprise—those teenage angst films are clichéd for a reason, after all—but even so, I’m glad it’s out in the open.

“I get that.” I take a spoonful of custard, and let it melt in my mouth. “The thing is, Brianna, I kinda like being around you and Logan. Not just because you’re great kids, but because . . . because my own son isn’t here anymore.”

Brianna’s eyes widen slightly. She knows about Dylan, but I don’t talk about him much in front of the kids. I guess I don’t talk about him much at all, because now that I’ve started, I can’t seem to stop.

“He loved being outside. Even when it was really cold, or raining hard. When he started walking he’d never pass a puddle without jumping in it—we used to have to carry a spare set of clothes with us, just in case.” I smile at the memory. “Even after he got sick, when he was in a wheelchair, he wanted to be outside. When it rained he’d throw back his head and open his mouth.”

Brianna stares at her waffles, heaped with ice cream and hot-chocolate sauce. “Mom used to push my sister in a wheelchair.”

“I know.” Slowly. Don’t fuck this up, Max. “We’ve got a lot in common, your mom and me.” I eat my custard, trying not to show how much I want to make this work. She doesn’t say anything for the longest while, and I run through a million things I could say, rejecting them all. I want to tell her that her mom saved me. That she made me smile again, that without her I might still be hiding under a pink comforter. I want to tell her that Blair makes me laugh the way no one else has since Pip left; that she understands me like no one else but Pip does. Only Brianna’s still a kid. So I eat my custard, and she eats her ice cream, and I guess we’re both thinking our own thoughts for a while.