Greg began to clank around the kitchen, putting away clean dishes, opening another bottle of wine, cutting bread, taking out the butter, making a salad. Whenever Peaches was incapacitated, he became hyperefficient. There’d been so many sad, restless, dissatisfied days before she became a nurse. They’d brainstormed possible solutions—move, have another baby, go to cooking school, go to plumbing school, train for a marathon. Peaches had fond memories of her own elementary school nurse. She made the kids toast and gave them Coke for an upset stomach. When Peaches finally decided to go to nursing school, Greg was thrilled. He made lists of the courses and exams she needed to take and the closest universities. He created study schedules for her. He shopped for groceries and cooked all their meals. He quizzed her and bought her a new pillow so she’d be well-rested before her exams.

“He would have liked to try the rabbit,” Peaches whimpered softly. She wiped her nose on her sleeve.

Greg lifted the lid and peeked into the pot. He gave it a stir. Legs, thighs, and a little pointed head. “You’re cooking a rabbit?”

She nodded and snorted into her arm. Her shoulders shook. Was she laughing or crying?

“I got him at the butcher. Rabbit must be the meat of the week or something. I know you won’t eat him. But I’m going to try him. Oh, and we need to watch more Nicole Kidman movies. They’re huge fans.”

“Who?” Liam wasn’t crying anymore.

Peaches wiped her nose on her shirtsleeve again. “The butchers.”

Liam stood up and took three glasses out of the cupboard. “Mom, you’re high. It’s embarrassing. Remember that time you asked me where to get pot? Was it for you?”

“No.” She waved her hand at him. “That was for Stuart Little. His wife was sick.”

Greg refilled her glass of wine. “I know you have a huge crush on him. I guess I always have too. I’ve been thinking about him a lot lately.”

Don’t waste your time, Peaches thought bitterly.

“I was wondering if I could give you some songs to share with him. I think they’re pretty good, but I’m not a hip enough musician to make them sound cool. I think he could. They’re kids’ songs. For a kids’ album.” He dispensed a cube of ice from the freezer, popped it into his mouth, and sucked on it. “I feel like you owe me this.”

Peaches gulped her wine. She decided not to say anything about Stuart trying to turn the Shel Silverstein poem “Sick” into a song. What did Greg mean, she owed him?