All The Summers Between Us | TSITP

Cracks In The Quiet.

The house smelled like lemons, basil, and something unspoken.

Lydia moved through the kitchen in soft, deliberate motions—hands steady, shoulders not. She was at the stove, stirring the pasta with a wooden spoon that had belonged to Susannah once upon a time.

Conrad stood a few feet away, slicing zucchini into neat, even rounds, the knife glinting under the late light.

Daniel leaned against the counter, trying to look relaxed but checking his phone every few minutes like it might accuse him of something.

It should have been simple—dinner prep before everyone got back. A normal thing. But everything about it felt fragile, like one wrong word might crack the air wide open.

"Everyone should be getting here soon," Lydia said quietly, not looking up.

"Yeah," Daniel said. "Tomorrow's a big day—dress shopping, tuxes... all that fun stuff."

Conrad made a low sound, not quite a laugh. "Fun's one word for it."

Lydia turned to glance at him, half-smiling despite herself. "You saying you don't enjoy watching people argue over fabric swatches?"

"Love it," he said dryly. "Right up there with root canals."

That earned a small laugh from her, and for a second the air softened—just a second—before Daniel's phone buzzed sharply against the counter.

He froze, glanced at the screen, then at Lydia. "It's work. I need to take this."

"Now?" she asked, too quickly.

He hesitated, already reaching for it. "It'll just be a few minutes."

Her jaw flexed, but she said nothing. He gave her an apologetic nod and walked out toward the living room, lowering his voice as he answered.

The silence he left behind wasn't comfortable.

Conrad wiped his hands on a towel and went back to the vegetables, breaking it with quiet efficiency. "You want me to start the grill?"

"Yeah," Lydia said after a pause. "Please."

He stepped out to the patio, lit the flame, and watched it catch. The sound of it—the low whoosh—felt steadier than anything inside that house. When he came back in, Lydia was zesting lemons, her brow furrowed in concentration.

"I'll get the bread," he said.

"Top shelf," she murmured.

They worked wordlessly, the rhythm easy in a way it shouldn't have been. He grilled the vegetables; she drained the pasta and saved the starchy water; together they built the meal like people who'd done this a hundred times before. He passed her the tongs; she reached without looking. When their fingers brushed, neither of them flinched—but both felt it.

When the pasta was done, Lydia stirred it all together—lemon, garlic, butter, roasted vegetables—the scent filling the kitchen. Conrad plated the salad, poured the olive oil into the little dipping bowls.

The table in the backyard was already set, catching the late sun. They carried everything outside, Conrad with the big ceramic bowl, Lydia with the bread and wine. They were laughing—softly, easily—about Jeremiah's bottomless appetite when the sound of tires on gravel cut through the air.

Then voices.

"WHAT UP, MY PEOPLE!" Jeremiah's voice boomed from the driveway before the car engine had even stopped.

Lydia froze, blinking, then turned toward the door. Conrad followed her gaze, and for a moment—just a heartbeat—they looked at each other and laughed.