Week 2: Wednesday

Lindsay went upstairs at nine.

She rapped twice with her knuckles on his door, light enough that she felt no surprise when there was no response. She counted to three, then turned the handle.

Damian was lying on his back, hands folded on his chest, staring at the ceiling. The curtains were still drawn. The room was dim and grey. When he saw her, his expression didn't change much—just a slight softening around his eyes, the corners of his mouth turning up in a small, sad smile. Like a puppy that had been left out in the rain.

"Morning," she said.

"Morning." His voice was quiet.

She lingered at the door. "I came to wake you up. Like you asked. Yesterday."

"Right." He blinked slowly. "Thank you. For remembering."

She shifted her weight. The blouse felt tight across her chest—the same blouse, the professional one, the one he'd asked for. She'd worn it without thinking this morning. Just reached into the closet and pulled it out.

She took a small step into the room, her hand still on the doorframe. "I wasn't sure if you'd want to... I mean, you asked me to wake you so we could do more job applications today. But I would understand if you wanted to skip. After yesterday."

"Oh." He looked down at his hands. "OK."

The word hung there. Not yes, not no. Just OK, dumb and flat.

He looked back up at her. "I'm sorry about yesterday. I didn't mean to delete the file. I'm not good with computers."

"It's fine," she said quickly. "It's not—"

The silence rushed in.

They both sat there. Lindsay opened her mouth, then closed it. She didn't know what to say. The apology she'd been rehearsing since yesterday afternoon had evaporated the moment she stepped through the door. All that was left was a thick, clumsy feeling in her throat.

She tried anyway.

"Damian, I—" She stopped. Took a breath. "I feel really bad about yesterday. About yelling at you."

He watched her. His face was still, guarded, but his eyes were alert. She could feel her heart starting to pound.

"It wasn't fair. You made a mistake. Everyone makes mistakes. And I just... I lost it. I shouldn't have done that. You didn't deserve that."

She paused. He didn't say anything. The silence pressed against her ears.

"And I know you've had people yell at you before. A lot of people. And I told myself I wasn't going to be like that. I told myself I was going to be patient and understanding and... and then I yelled at you over a computer file. Over something we could just redo. It was stupid. I was stupid."

She was rambling now. She could hear herself rambling and couldn't stop.

"And I'm sorry. I'm really sorry. I keep thinking about how you looked—how you just sat there and said 'this is what always happens'—and I felt like the worst person alive. Because I'm supposed to be different. I wanted to be different. That's all. I just wanted to be different."

She stopped. Her heart was hammering. She could feel it—a hard, fast pulse at her throat, her temples, behind her ribs. Why was this so hard? She'd apologized to people before. Colleagues, clients, Greg. This was different. This felt like standing on the edge of something.

Damian was quiet for a long moment. Then his expression shifted—just slightly, the guardedness cracking to let something through. Something that looked like hope.

"Yesterday was really stressful for me," he said. His voice was soft, almost fragile. "When you yell, it reminds me of... other places. Other people. And I just..." He swallowed. "Do you really mean that? What you said? Promise you won't stress me out like that again?"

"Yes," she said. The word left her mouth before she'd decided to say it. Her chest went warm for a second, a small flush of something that wasn't quite relief. "I promise."

His whole face changed. The caution evaporated. The guardedness dropped away. A massive, uncomplicated smile spread across his lips, bright and warm and real.

She thought: Gosh, this kid wears his heart on his sleeve.

He was clearly in much better spirits now. The sadness from a moment ago was gone, replaced by something almost buoyant.

She smiled back, a little relieved. "Is there anything I can do? To help? I mean, after yesterday..."

He looked down at his hands. His cheeks flushed pink. He looked shy. Embarrassed. His mouth opened and closed a couple of times.

"I mean..." He stuttered. "You're my mother now. Sort of. And you were being so mean yesterday, and I just—it would help me feel like I belong here if you—"

He stopped. His face was red.

Lindsay tilted her head. "If I what?"

He took a breath. "Could you give me a hug?"

"Sure," she said.

She was already walking over before she'd decided to move. Sure. The word had done its work. She was crossing the room, her indoor slippers clicking on the hardwood, closing the distance to his bed.

He sat up a little, propping himself against the headboard, and she leaned down to hug him. The angle was awkward—she was standing, he was sitting, the bed was low. She wrapped her arms around his shoulders and he leaned into her, his face pressing directly into her chest.

She didn't think much of it at first. His cheek was warm through the silk of her blouse, his breath a soft heat against the curve of her breast. Her hands rested on his back. He was thin—she could feel his shoulder blades through the hoodie.

She tried to pull back after a few seconds. Gave a little shift of her weight.

He held on.

His arms were tight around her waist, his face still pressed against her chest. She could feel his breath—slow, steady, deliberate. The fabric of her blouse had gone damp where his mouth was, just a small circle of warmth that seemed to spread.

His nose was pressed right between her breasts. She could feel the tip of it through the silk. She shifted her weight slightly and it moved with her, and then she stopped thinking about it.

He must not have gotten many hugs growing up, she thought. He's just being clingy. He doesn't know how to let go.

She could feel her own heartbeat against her ribs—or maybe that was his cheek pressed against her sternum, picking up the pulse. His arms were wrapped around her waist, his fingers splayed across the small of her back. The position was intimate in a way that registered somewhere below her conscious thoughts, a faint signal she didn't have to interpret.

Ten seconds. Fifteen. Twenty. His arms didn't loosen. His face didn't move. The damp spot on her blouse had grown larger, and she could feel the fabric clinging to her skin.

Finally, he pulled back. His face was flushed, his eyes bright. That massive smile was back, wider than before.

"Thanks, Mo—" He stopped. Coughed. "Thanks, Lindsay."

She blinked. Mo? Had he been about to call her Mom? No. Surely not. It was too soon for that. He'd known her for two weeks. The adoption paperwork wasn't even finalized. She must have misheard.

She straightened up. Her blouse was rumpled. She smoothed it down without thinking. Her fingers brushed against the damp spot—still warm, still clinging. She ignored it.

"Sure," she said, a little flustered. "Anything else?"

He looked down at his lap, then back up at her. His expression turned sheepish.

"Could I get breakfast in bed today? It's just so comfy here. And after yesterday..."

"Yes," she said. She was already turning toward the door. "Of course."

She rolled her eyes a little as she stepped into the hallway. But if one breakfast in bed was what it took to make up for her yelling at him yesterday, it wasn't a big deal. It was fine. She'd make the waffles, bring them up, and they could try again tomorrow.

She was at the top of the stairs when his voice called out from the bedroom.

"Oh, and Lindsay?"

She turned. "Yes?"

"I think I will take you up on your offer. About skipping the job searching today." He was smiling from the bed, all innocence. "Could you wake me up tomorrow at the same time? We can play it by ear if I'm feeling less stressed about it."

She felt the word rise in her throat, automatic and helpless.

"Sure, Damian. Same time tomorrow."

She walked down the stairs to go prepare a plate of waffles.