I dig through the medicine cabinet and stumble upon an almost-full bottle of Tramadol from Birdie’s root canal a few months ago. I read the directions on the bottle and pop two in my mouth, following it with a swig of water before throwing the bottle of pills onto my bed and heading back to the kitchen.

Elijah is standing in the kitchen with his wet T-shirt in his hands, the bright yellow towel I offered him earlier slung around his bare shoulders. His hair is loose and tousled, like he just finished rubbing it with the towel.

“Hey, um… do you want a peanut butter sandwich?” I ask him.

“Oh. Um. Sure,” he says. “I’ll get us some milk.”

I set to work on four sandwiches while Elijah pours milk next to me. I want to say something about today, but I’m not sure what. Our conversations this morning about Birdie and my father’s property, and later about Reece and knowing what it’s like to miss people, are all mixed up in my head.

“You know you can come in here and make yourself something to eat whenever you want to, right?” I say, sliding a paper towel with two fat sandwiches toward him. “You don’t have to wait for Birdie or me.”

He shrugs. “It just feels weird, you know? It’s not my house.”

“Birdie doesn’t feel that way. She’d probably be thrilled if you came in here and grabbed yourself some leftovers some night. It’s really okay,” I say.

Elijah swallows hard next to me. I don’t know if it’s because I put too much peanut butter on the sandwich or something else entirely.

We eat in silence for a few minutes. I watch the moths attack the screen door.

“I’m really sorry that all of this was such a surprise for you,” Elijah finally says, his voice thick.

My heart sinks. I want to be angry with him. I want to lash out and tell Elijah that I think the way he left me three years ago was shitty and that showing up on my doorstep now is really making a mess of things. But then I look at him, this big, giant hulk of a guy eating a peanut butter sandwich and trying to be so small. So quiet. So indistinct.

“Thanks for the sandwiches,” he says, rolling up his paper towel and throwing it away. He grabs the sponge from the sink and wipes the counter where he was sitting and puts his milk glass in the dishwasher. When he’s done, you can’t even tell he was sitting there.

“You’ll have to make me a sandwich tomorrow,” I say to him. “As payment.”

He pauses in the kitchen doorway. “Deal.”