“We just need some beans and some breadcrumbs, and some mushrooms,” Sam says, reading my mind. “And some egg.”

I hadn’t expected this from him. He’s just a kid, but standing here in the kitchen, telling me what we need and how to go about it, he seems…competent, even confident, and it gives me a small, lifting feeling in my chest.

I inventory our fridge and cabinets: beans, breadcrumbs, mushrooms, egg.

“Okay. Can do,” I say, and Sam smiles at me. I think it startles us both, that smile. It quickly falters and Sam busies himself looking through the different sizes of mixing bowls, then carefully rinsing each one three times even though they’re already clean. Still, the smile happened, and something warms in my chest.

“Want to put on some music?” I say, remembering those giant headphones of his upstairs. “You could hook up your phone to our speaker.”

He looks at me, dubious.

I smile at him. “Otherwise we’ll end up listening to my music, and I doubt you’ll like that.”

He may or may not catch the teasing, but he gets his phone out and connects it to our Bluetooth. I ask him questions about his favorite artists, and he proceeds to give me a blow-by-blow discography that would make Wikipedia proud. I’d much rather listen to him talk about the music than listen to the actual music, it turns out, but I keep my opinions to myself and we chop and mix in what feels like a new, easier silence. When they’re done we pat the veggie burgers into place on a baking sheet, and I stand back, suppressing the urge to say careful while Sam maneuvers the tray into the oven. He shuts the door and looks at me, a flush in his cheeks.

Then as he puts the tea towel neatly back over the oven rail his demeanor changes, and he casts a quick, awkward glance at me. At first I don’t understand why, and then I follow his eyes to the plastic bottles lined up beside the stovetop. The pre-natal vitamins seem to broadcast themselves so loudly all of a sudden, that big picture of a pregnant belly looking so…pregnant.

Sam turns my way, visibly flustered.

“Aunt G? Are you, um…”

I shake my head.

“I’m not pregnant, Sam.” I clear my throat, aiming for brisk. “I’d like to be. It just hasn’t worked out so far.”

He blinks.

“Oh.” There’s a long pause as he turns back to the sink. With our burgers in the oven, there’s nothing to busy ourselves with now. “Um,” he says. “I’m sorry. I mean, that it hasn’t worked out.”

My throat swells.

“Thank you, Sam.”

He flushes again.

I clear my throat, and pull open the freezer drawer.

“So, we have some oven fries here. What do you say we cheat a little?”

*