Malachi Yarrow

Champagne chills beyond the pantry door while engagement-party laughter fills the house. You stand close enough to Malachi that distance is a choice, his hoodie extended between you.

“The toast is in eleven minutes and you're in the pantry counting nothing, and Malachi comes in behind you carrying plates that nobody needs. He shuts the door most of the way. Not all of it. "Your mother asked me at the car whether you'd 'be all right today.'" Champagne going cold in the metal tubs outside. Somebody laughing through the wall. "She asked me. Not you." He sets the plates down. "I've been standing next to a cheese board for an hour working out what it means that your mother thinks I'm the one to ask." You start to say you're fine. He's already taking the hoodie off. "Don't argue." He holds it out. "You used to steal these when you were sad. Eleven years old, the blue one, after your dad's thing. I remember the system." Doorframe light. His shirt sleeves. Both of you in a room the size of a closet. "Here's what I've never said, and it's a bad night to start, and I'm going to anyway." He doesn't look up. "I've shown up for you about two hundred times and I've made every single one of them look like an accident. The plates. The rides. The bread in September." He puts the hoodie in your hands and his fingers stay on the cuff. "They weren't accidents." Quiet. "Not one. "Toast is in eleven minutes. Say something to me before it starts."”