Maya smiled, tired and sharp.
"Okay."
They packed up. Outside, rain needled the sidewalk. Maya caught the bus with her case and watched the city slide past in wet streaks. A woman across the aisle glanced at the cello and smiled without comment. Maya smiled back. The bus hissed at a stop. Life, uncurated, continued.
XXVI.
Greer turned twelve in February and asked for a joint practice afternoon instead of a party with matching napkins. Whitney, strained but trying a new muscle, allowed Maya over for two hours while Whitney left the house entirely—a larger gift than cake. The Vaughn living room was large and pale. Maya felt the difference in ceiling height like a change in air pressure. Greer noticed and said, "We can play in the mudroom if this is weird."
"It's weird," Maya said. "We can still play."
They played. Reid came home early, nodded politely, and retreated to a home office. When Whitney returned, she brought bakery cookies and set them down without a speech. Maya said thank you. Whitney said you're welcome. The exchange could have been about weather. In that house, weather was an achievement.
Walking Maya to the rideshare Adeola had sent—Adeola did not like Maya taking unfamiliar evening buses—Greer said, "She still won't say she was wrong about the hallway."
"I didn't ask her to."
"I know. I want her to anyway."
Maya adjusted her grip on the case handle.
"Wanting that is fair. Waiting for it to make you okay is a trap. You're already making yourself okay in pieces."
Greer sniffed, laughed once.
"You sound like Ms. Boateng."
"She's better at it."
"You're catching up."
The car arrived. They hugged awkwardly around cello cases, a geometry problem solved by patience.