Week 2: Saturday

The elliptical at 7:30am on a Saturday was Lindsay's.

Not officially. She paid the same monthly gym fee, shared the machines with the same rotating cast of early regulars. But the seven-thirty hour belonged to her in the specific way anything belongs to you when nobody else wants it. Empty row of machines. All of the lockers were available in the locker room. It was great.

She had her playlist. She had forty-five minutes. The news ticker on the wall-mounted television scrolled past things she wasn't reading.

Her heart rate climbed. The machine counted up.

Eight fifteen. If she left by eight fift—

She caught herself.

Really.

She turned the resistance up two notches on her machine. Focused on the Meridian property. The Garcia follow-up. The interest rate environment and what it was going to do to the spring market. Good solid professional thoughts that had nothing to do with an arbitrary nine o'clock deadline.

The man on the elliptical next to her had started shortly after she arrived.

Early thirties, reasonably put together, the kind of person who treated the gym as a social occasion — glancing around between intervals, aware of who was nearby. She'd noticed him noticing her when she got on the machine, and she'd put her headphones in and ignored it. She had always been attractive, and as unfair as it was, she had gotten used to men trying not to stare.

She was pretty sure that he chose the elliptical next to her for a reason.

No use worrying about weirdos. She finished her interval and reached up to fix her ponytail.

Lindsay heard the stumble before she saw it — a sudden graceless break in the smooth rhythm of the machine beside her, a sound like someone's foot catching where it shouldn't. She looked over. The man had grabbed the handlebars and was recovering, staring straight ahead with the fixed expression of someone who was going to pretend that he hadn't been checking her out.

She looked at what she was wearing. The sports bra. The fitted tank. The way it had been fitting lately.

Honestly, she thought, What a loser.

She moved toward the other side of the gym to find a treadmill that was not in that creep's line of vision. Clearing her mind, she took a sip of water then increased the speed of the track. She tried thinking about the Meridian property again.

If she left by eight twenty-five she'd have to take a quicker shower but she could still be upstairs by—

Stop it, she told herself. You are on an treadmill. You are thinking about work. You are not planning your Saturday morning around a nineteen-year-old's wake-up time.

She breathed in and out. The machine counted her laps. The man beside her did not look at her again, which she appreciated, though she suspected it cost him something.

At eight-fifteen she wiped down the machine and drove home with the grim efficiency of a woman who had a nine o'clock deadline. She refused to acknowledge that she was definitely going to make that appointment.

---

She heard the television from the entryway.

Not just the television — Greg's voice, mid-explanation, with the specific animated cadence she hadn't heard directed at a Cubs game in quite some time. She followed it to the living room doorway and stopped.

Greg was on the couch leaning forward.

Since when does Greg lean forward at the television.

Greg normally reclined at the television. This was a fact as established as the mortgage and the arrangement of the kitchen cabinets. He watched the game in mild contented solitude, half on his phone, committed to nothing and no one. He did not explain. He did not lean.

He was leaning forward, animated. He was explaining something.

"—so the infield depth is what people miss, because when you're looking at a short series the margin is so small that one error in the fifth inning can—"

Damian was beside him - sweatpants, a navy sweatshirt she didn't recognize, his hands around the spare mug from the back of the cabinet, the one that had been there since before Naomi was born. He was watching the screen with that focused attentive expression he gave everything, nodding occasionally.

She glanced at the screen, immediately understanding. It was The Cubs. Spring training.

"You're back." Greg glanced over his shoulder. Easy wide smile. "Good run?"

"Yep! I spent some time on the ellipticals too." She had barely moved from the doorway. Suspiciously, she asked, "What have you two been up to?"

"Couldn't sleep. Came down and found this one already here." He gestured at Damian with the mug. The gesture was easy, natural. "We got talking, turns out the kid's never seen anything about baseball!"

Damian looked over at her. That warm, morning smile, soft at the edges. A smile that made her feel weirdly at peace. "Morning, Lindsay. How was the gym?"

"Good." She looked at Greg. At the lean. At the brightness in his face, the animation of a man who has found an audience for something he'd assumed no one wanted to hear. "I guess I'll go shower. Don't let me interrupt you both."

"You're not interrupting." Already turning back to the screen. "Damian's a good student, especially for a first-time watcher!"

"Well, nobody's ever taken the time to explain it to me," Damian said, shyly. "But Greg explains it so well!"

"He asks good questions." Greg said it warmly, nodding.

---

She stood in the hot water longer than she meant to. She liked long showers.

The pressure was good. The heat did something useful for the tension in her shoulders, which had been there for days in a way she couldn't locate the source of. She stood and let it run and thought about nothing and was, for a few minutes, just a body under hot water.

She turned it off and reached for the towel. The mirror was fully fogged. She wiped a clear oval with her palm.

Okay, she thought. There it is.

She'd been right. The week of low-grade suspicion, the bras fitting wrong, the tenderness she'd been attributing to the general indignities of being forty-three — all of it confirmed now, simply and plainly, in the fogged bathroom mirror on a Saturday morning.

Her boobs were bigger.

Not dramatically, but definitely bigger. She was standing here looking at herself and she knew her own body and there was simply no other explanation.

Fuller. Heavier. The skin pale in the bathroom light, faintly traced with blue. She cupped one in both hands — testing the weight, the specific new weight of it — and the tenderness was immediate and clear. She thought about the underwire that had been digging into her side all week. She thought about the cream silk blouse.

She thought about the man at the gym. His foot catching. The fixed expression of someone pretending nothing had happened.

At the time, she had rolled her eyes. She had been making creeps stumble like that since she was a teenager.

She looked at herself in the mirror now. At what the sports bra had apparently been doing this morning. At the weight of what she was holding in her own hands.

Well, she thought. I mean... I don't think I can blame him. These are... wow.

Her thumbs moved slightly, unconsciously, as she held her breasts up.

Menopause? Perimenopause? What could explain this

She was aware of her nipples, stiff in the cool bathroom air, the tenderness of them heightened in a way that was distinct from the general tenderness of her boobs. She stood there a moment, her hands full and warm, not moving toward anything.

Then she put the towel back on and went to the closet.

She slipped on some plain underwear, dried her hair off and them moved to her closet. Her hands moved through the familiar geography of the wardrobe while her brain was still somewhere in the hot water — not quite catching up, not quite present. She was thinking about buttermilk. Whether she had enough buttermilk. Whether she'd remembered to check before—

Her hands found a dress. The green one. Fitted, scoop neck. She had it off the hanger before she'd looked at it, stepping into it by feel, pulling it up, reaching back for the zip.

Halfway up she stopped.

Wait.

She stood there. Half-zipped. Looked at herself in the mirror on the closet door — the green dress, the scoop neck, the way the fabric pulled across her chest in a way it hadn't used to, her boobs straining against it in a way that was going to make the morning into something it didn't need to be.

Why am I wearing a dress. It's Saturday.

She stood there another moment, looking at herself looking at herself, and then reached back and unzipped it. Stepped out. Hung it back up with a care she didn't examine, smoothing it flat. Then she turned back to the closet in just her bra and underwear.

She wasn't looking for anything specific. Her eyes moved over the rail without urgency. The morning light came through the curtains in long pale stripes. She was aware of the new weight of herself, the specific gravity of standing still in a quiet room. Her hair was damp on her shoulders. The bra was the good one, the one that fit properly now that she'd bought the right size — underwire sitting flat, the cups full, her boobs lifted and rounded in a way that made the sports bra's earlier efforts look frankly inadequate.

She stood there for a moment.

Then she reached for the jeans. The soft grey sweater. She put them on and the woman in the mirror was Saturday Lindsay. She was not dressing for anyone. She was going to be comfortable.

With that thought, she went downstairs.

---

She heard them before she reached the kitchen. Greg still going, still animated, Damian underneath it quieter. She came through the doorway and Greg looked up with an expression that was unmistakably hopeful.

"Tell me," he said, "that you're making waffles."

"Why would I be making waffles."

"Because this kid—" he gestured at Damian, "—has been talking about your waffles for twenty minutes and now I can't think about anything else." The aggrieved expression of a man who has been wronged by proximity to enthusiasm. "Apparently they're life-changing. Twenty-three years of marriage and I've never once gotten life-changing waffles."

"You've gotten perfectly good waffles."

"From a box."

"Which I made."

"Linds." He spread his hands jovially. "The kid gets buttermilk batter and real maple syrup. I get the box. How come he gets the special treatment?"

Why did Greg have to ask that.

She kept her face easy and moved to the counter, pulling things out. Buttermilk. Eggs. Back to him, which helped.

How would she even begin to explain it. That it had started because Damian asked, and then continued because he asked again, each time with that specific look and that specific quiet voice, and each time sure had come out of her mouth before she'd finished the thought. That the waffle iron had been living on the counter for two weeks because she'd stopped pretending she was going to put it away. That she could make this batter in the dark now.

Would Greg think it was odd? He'd probably think it was sweet. He'd probably say something warm and slightly oblivious about what a good mother she was. That was somehow worse. No. Just — no. Easier not to.

"Honestly, I don't know," she said lightly, starting to whisk. "I just found that I really enjoy it."

There was, at least, some truth to that. She was getting pretty good at making waffles. She crinkled her nose at him playfully, "Now if you stop complaining, maybe I'd make some. Do you want some or not?"

"Obviously." Greg settled back. "Twenty-three years," he said, to no one in particular. "Never got fresh-made waffles. I better step up my game!"

She smiled as she whisked the batter. Greg could be cute.

The iron heated. She worked through the proportions — buttermilk, eggs, vanilla, flour — the way her hands knew them now, and Greg was talking about baseball again behind her, back to the Cubs game, and she listened with half her attention in the absent comfortable way of a woman whose husband has been providing Saturday morning commentary for two decades.

"—and the bullpen has been the real story, because if you shore that up then the whole rotation starts to make more sense and you can see why they're being underestimated going into—"

"Mmm." She poured the first measure into the iron.

"—and I know I've historically been pretty down on the Cardinals—"

She stopped whisking.

"—I mean, erm." Greg paused. "They're not — well. I've been reconsidering. A bit."

She turned around.

"Don't you hate the Cardinals," she said.

Greg looked up. He had the expression of a man who has been caught mid-thought and is now aware that the thought was slightly more visible than intended. "I don't hate them."

"Greg. You hate the Cardinals. You have hated the Cardinals since the nineties. You—" She stopped. Looked at Damian.

Damian was looking right back at her, his expression pleasant, attentive, and completely ordinary.

"I've just been thinking," Greg said, rallying, "that maybe I've been a bit rigid. About it. Damian made some good points this morning about their lineup and when you actually look at the numbers this season they're quite underrated. Good fundamentals." He looked up with the conviction of a man who has arrived at a conclusion he can't fully source. "I'm actually looking forward to seeing them play."

Lindsay stood at the waffle iron. This was baffling.

Greg had been a Cubs fan since he was seven years old. There was a framed photograph of his first Cubs game in his office. He had a jersey in the closet that predated their marriage. She had watched him leave a sports bar, once, when a Cardinals game came on.

She looked at Damian again. Still looking at her, the same innocent smile on his face.

She turned back to the iron, not sure what to make of it.

Hm, she thought.

Thankfully, she didn't get much time to ponder the matter because a few moments later, she heard footsteps racing down the stairs. A few moments later, Naomi appeared in the kitchen doorway in an oversized t-shirt and running shorts, hair in a bun, phone in hand.

She clocked the room — Greg at the table, Damian across from him, Lindsay at the waffle iron — and then immediately began looking at her phone, disinterested.

"Morning," she said, focused more on her texts than on making eye contact.

"Morning sweetheart." Greg folded the sports section.

After a pause, Naomi finally looked up and remembered that she was in the real world. She walked over to where Lindsay had been sitting, plopped down, and stole a sip of coffee. Honestly, Lindsay didn't mind sharing her coffee mug. She hardly got to see her daughter anymore so small things like that let her know that Naomi still felt close to her. She was proud to see her daughter become this gorgeous, independent woman, but sometimes she missed her baby girl.

Lindsay let her thoughts drift while Naomi and Greg talked to her about her plans and she answered in the comfortable shorthand of a father and daughter who know each other's patterns. Lindsay made waffles and listened and the kitchen had a warmth to it she was trying to simply be in without picking at it.

"Megan should be here any minute," Naomi said, glancing at her phone.

As if on queue, a horn sounded outside. Two quick bursts.

Naomi was already moving — phone pocketed, coffee abandoned, the compressed forward energy of someone with somewhere to be. She kissed Lindsay's cheek. "Bye, Mom." Squeezed Greg's shoulder as she passed. "Bye, Dad."

In response, Lindsay and Greg both hollered, "Bye, sweetie," at the same time. Years of practicing the same goodbye ritual could do that.

Naomi was already at the kitchen doorway when she stopped.

Damian was looking over at Naomi as he smiled and waved goodbye, a warm, friendly expression on his face.

"Bye, Damian," Naomi said.

There was a subtle awkwardness before she said it — so slight that Lindsay wondered if she had imagined it.

If Damian noticed it, he didn't care. He just replied in his simple, sweet tone. "Bye Naomi. Have fun!"

A second later, Naomi was gone out the front door. Lindsay heard Megan's car pulling away.

Hm, she thought.

She had completely forgotten about the bathroom thing. Friday, had been so full that somewhere in the middle of it the confrontation with Naomi, the things Naomi had said, the step forward, the underwear — it had slipped down into the back of her mind.

Honestly, she had been worried that Naomi would have ignored Damian. When Naomi was sixteen she hadn't spoken to Lindsay for six days after a fight about curfew. Six days. She was not a girl who let things go easily. But here she was saying bye, hesitantly but genuinely.

I guess it resolved itself, she thought, and turned back just as the waffle maker ding-ed to indicate it was finished.

She remove the hot waffles, put them on a plate, and served her family.

They ate. The waffles were good — reliably excellent now, three weeks of practice having done its work — and Greg ate two helpings and said so with the enthusiasm of a converted man.

The kitchen was warm. The morning light was full and settled. Lindsay drank her coffee and listened to Greg describe what Damian had apparently taught him about the Cardinals' pitching rotation, which she gathered was quite sophisticated for someone who had never watched baseball before today.

"He's a quick study," Greg said, nodding at Damian. "Really is."

"I just listen well," Damian said, modest.

"You ask good questions." Greg picked up his coffee. He leaned back in his chair with the specific expansiveness of a man whose Saturday was exceeding expectations.

An idea flashed in Lindsay's mind. This was an opportunity.

"You know, you two really seem to be hitting it off." She paused, pretending to be thoughtful. "Maybe you should take Damian into the office next week. Show him what it looks like and see if you can get him an internship or something. Might light a fire under the job applications situation."

"Hey, that's a great point," Greg said, eagerly. "We could do something together. It might be fun." He looked at Damian. "What do you say, kiddo? Want to see what it looks like when someone has a real career." Hhe said the last bit with a light teasing quality, glancing at Lindsay, and Lindsay grinned back at him. She felt, briefly, like they were on the same team.

Greg's grin softened into something more earnest. "I know we said I'd be hands-off," he said, glancing between her and Damian, "and that this was — well." He did something with his hand that was almost an air quote. "Your project."

Why would he say that. She loved her husband, but honestly, sometimes Greg was just... tactless.

Greg didn't miss a beat, continuing, "But he's a good kid, Linds. I'm busy, but I don't want to be completely checked out. Once I get some time off I'd genuinely like to—"

"Oh, what do you mean by that?" Damian said, interrupting him slowly.

Greg looked startled for a fraction of a second, but it was quickly replaced with an easy grin. He looked at Damian, then at Lindsay, who had opened her mouth and now closed it.

"The project thing," Damian said. He looked genuinely curious. "What does that mean?"

"Ah, yeah. Sorry. I probably shouldn't have called it that," Greg said chuckling, clearly just realizing what he had said.

"When we were going through the adoption process, Lindsay was the one really driving it. It was her idea, her research, her paperwork. She's been the one managing the day-to-day since you arrived. Job stuff, getting you settled. The whole thing." He said it warmly, generously, a man giving his wife credit. "So I guess we both thought of it as — her thing. Her project. Y'know?"

Damian looked at Lindsay.

"Oh," he said, a look of happy understanding crossing his face.

"That makes sense actually, I get it now." He was still smiling, until a sudden thought crossed his mind and he looked down at the table thoughtful. " I didn't know that. I'm sorry, Lindsay — I didn't realize that helping me out was supposed to be your thing. That Greg was meant to be hands-off." He looked at Greg. "Did you two agree on that? That you'd stay out of it?"

"Something like that," Greg said, looking vaguely as though he was beginning to understand that this conversation had a shape he hadn't anticipated.

"Right." Damian nodded slowly. "So when we were talking this morning — me and Greg — we were kind of stepping on that. On what you'd built." He looked at Lindsay with that open, earnest expression. "I'm really sorry. I should have realized."

"You don't need to—"

"No, honestly." He looked at Greg. "It makes total sense that you'd be hands-off. Lindsay has a system. She knows what's happening. If you start getting involved it just creates confusion, right?" He tilted his head at Greg. "Isn't that right?"

"Well—" Greg started, clearly only agreeing with half of what was being said.

"And honestly it's better for everyone if there's one point of contact. Less complicated." He looked at Lindsay. "Isn't that what makes sense? Greg focuses on work, lets you handle things with me. Don't you think that's the right call, Lindsay?"

No, she thought. No, that is not what I think. I would very much like Greg's help. I wanted his help before the adoption, I definitely want it now that I've realized that Damian is a great deal more work than I expected. I am doing all of this alone and I need—

"I suppose that does make sense," she heard herself say.

Why did I just say that.

"Great!" Damian said happily as he turned to look at Greg. "Moving forward, you don't need to worry about us! We'll come to you if something's really important. But the day-to-day — just leave that to Lindsay. No need to worry about that stuff at all. Right, Greg?"

"Right-o," Greg said, with the cheerful agreement of a man who had just been told he was allowed to do less work. "Good point, kid. And sorry Linds, I didn't think about it like that."

Lindsay sat at the table.

She would very much like to say something. She had something to say. She wanted Greg involved. She wanted another adult in this house who was paying attention to what was happening. She wanted — she was going to say—

"I think that's so wise of you, Lindsay," Damian said, looking at her warmly. "Really. You're so organized about all of this. It makes sense that you'd want to manage it yourself."

She opened her mouth.

"And honestly it makes sense for Greg to mainly focus on work right now, doesn't it. He's been busy. And you've been managing so well." He looked at her. "You agree that that makes the most sense for now?"

"Yes," she said. The word came out clean and simple and she heard it arrive and stayed very still.

"Brilliant." Greg stood up, with the expansive energy of a man whose morning has produced a satisfying resolution along with excellent waffles. He picked up his plate. "Thanks for taking this on, Linds," he said, genuinely apologetic, kissing the top of her head as he passed, "didn't realize I was stepping on your toes."

You weren't, she thought.

"No problem, honey," she said.

Greg set his plate in the sink — not rinsed, not in the dishwasher, just set in the sink, which was a thing he had been doing for twenty-three years that she had mentioned perhaps a thousand times.

"Glad that's settled." He smiled at them both, warm and complete. "These waffles were genuinely excellent, by the way. The kid was right." He pointed at Damian. "Well played." Then to Lindsay, "Now that we're talking about work, I did actually want to catch up on some emails. I'll leave you two to it."

And he was gone. Footsteps down the hall. Office door.

The kitchen was quiet.

Lindsay sat at the table and held her coffee in both hands and looked at nothing in particular for a moment.

You weren't, she thought again. You weren't stepping on my toes. I wanted you here. I wanted you involved. I have been wanting you involved since before we signed the paperwork and I still want it and I just agreed to the opposite in front of you. What's happening? Was it Dam—

Her mind shifted focus back to reality. She just realized that Damian had been talking and she had not been listening.

"—so the thing about the defensive shift," he was saying, "is that it makes total sense once you understand why it evolved, but Greg was explaining that a lot of purists hate it and I can see that too because there's something about the traditional geometry of the game that the shift kind of disrupts—"

She blinked. He had been talking about baseball. He sounded just like when Greg talked about the sport, cheerful, pleasant, and utterly boring.

"—and I never understood why people cared so much about sports before but I think I get it now. It's like — it's a language, isn't it. You learn the language and then you can have a whole conversation with someone you just met. Greg and I were talking for two hours this morning. Two hours." He smiled. "I've never done that before. Just talked to someone for two hours."

Lindsay looked at him. At the open, warm, slightly wondering expression.

"He's a good guy," Damian said. "Greg."

"He is," she said. And meant it, which made this whole situation somehow worse.

Damian looked up at her with that familiar expression, so genuine and innocent.

"Hey, Lindsay. I know you've probably got plans for today," he said, shyly, like a kid about to ask to stay up past their bed time. "And I really don't want to use up your whole morning." He paused. "But do you think you could help me with my laundry? I keep trying to remember what you showed me and I can't quite get it straight."

Lindsay looked at him across the clean kitchen with a **** smile.

Of course, I don't want to do your laundry, she thought. You're an adult.

This time, she was only half-surprised when something else came out of her own mouth.

"Of course, Damian. I'd be happy to help."

---

I am heavily motivated by likes so please like the chapter if you enjoyed it!