Chapter 33: The Shape of the Weekend
Saturday morning came soft and slow.
The curtains in Eva's room swayed gently in the breeze from the open window, letting in the smell of dew and jasmine. Somewhere downstairs, a playlist of French jazz murmured through the speakers—Vivienne's doing, probably. It was always French jazz on the weekends, just like the smell of cinnamon or fresh coffee meant Evelyn had started on her absurdly over-engineered breakfast plans.
Eva woke without needing to be called. She stretched under her cotton blanket, blinked at the light filtering through the canopy of her bed, and let her legs dangle off the side before hopping down.
It was the weekend.
That meant they were hers again.
*****
In the kitchen, Evelyn stood barefoot in her oversized sweater, her reading glasses perched on her nose as she puzzled over a recipe on her tablet. She looked up when she heard Eva's feet pad across the tiles.
"There you are, sleepy bug," she said, crouching down with open arms.
Eva ran into her with a delighted squeak and was scooped up immediately.
"You smell like vanilla and blueberries," Eva murmured.
"Because I'm making waffles from scratch."
"You always say that like it's impressive."
"It is," Evelyn said with mock indignation, setting her down on the counter.
Eva giggled and poked at the flour dusting her mother's cheek. "Waffles aren't hard."
"Spoken like a girl who doesn't have to do the dishes afterward."
"Is Auntie up?"
"She's in the garden. Probably pretending the roses talk to her."
"They do," Eva said matter-of-factly, kicking her legs. "They like her lipstick. They think she's the queen of bees."
"Well, then it's good she brought her crown."
Evelyn turned back to the batter, and Eva twisted slightly to watch her mother move—measured, calm, quietly efficient. There was a serenity to her when she cooked, like the rhythm of whisk and bowl helped her breathe easier.
Then came the sound of a sliding door opening.
And Vivienne, in all her Saturday glory, entered with sunglasses on, a watering can in one hand and a lavender sprig tucked behind her ear. She paused when she saw Eva on the counter and grinned wide.
"My darling," she said, setting the watering can down with a flourish and sweeping across the room in quick, graceful steps. "Are you assisting the Waffle Witch this morning?"
"She's not a witch," Eva said seriously. "She's an alchemist."
Vivienne laughed, leaned forward, and kissed Eva's cheek. "You're absolutely right. Evelyn's waffles do have transformative powers."
She kissed Evelyn too—just the corner of her mouth, quick and soft, like it was muscle memory.
Evelyn's eyes flicked toward the window as if checking no one saw. But she didn't step away.
Not anymore.
They were still cautious in front of Eva, but the lines had blurred. And Eva, two or not, noticed everything.
She didn't mind. If anything, she felt vaguely pleased when she saw them whispering too close or brushing hands in passing. She didn't fully understand it yet, not in words. But it felt like safety.
It felt like home.
*****
After breakfast—Evelyn's crisp waffles stacked high, smothered in peaches and honey whipped cream—they spread a picnic blanket in the sun-dappled garden.
Vivienne brought out a low bamboo tray with iced tea and a plate of fresh fruit. Evelyn carried a stack of sketchbooks and watercolors. Eva, her arms full of plush animals and one worn book of constellations, announced this would be an outdoor learning day.
"I'm the teacher," she declared, pointing a plastic ruler at both women. "No talking when I'm talking."
"Yes, ma'am," Vivienne said solemnly, lounging back with one arm behind her head.
"Do we get snacks?" Evelyn asked, flicking her a glance.
"Only if you behave," Eva said, sitting primly in a tiny canvas chair.
And so the game began.
Eva assigned roles. Vivienne was an alien trying to learn human music. Evelyn was a time traveler stuck in the wrong year. They were required to answer questions about the solar system, act out the phases of the moon, and occasionally burst into spontaneous spelling bees.
Evelyn played along with scholarly commitment. Vivienne played with chaos.
It was perfect.
Hours passed that way—under a sky full of laughter and clinking glasses, with the smell of jasmine rising between jokes and watercolor splotches. Eva painted their portraits, made them trade shoes, and eventually declared recess so she could roll in the grass without consequence.
"You two are in love," she said suddenly, rolling to a stop and staring up at the sky.
Evelyn and Vivienne, lying nearby in twin patches of sun, both went very still.
Eva didn't look at them when she said it. Her eyes were on a passing cloud that looked vaguely like a swan.
"It's okay," she added. "You don't have to say anything."
Evelyn swallowed, her fingers curling slightly into the blanket.
Vivienne's voice was careful. "Is that something you're… happy about, sweetheart?"
Eva turned her head then. Her cheeks were flushed from the sun, and her curls were stuck to her forehead.
"I think it's good," she said simply. "Because when you love each other, you smile more. And then when I'm sad, it's easier to believe everything will be fine."
Neither woman had a response at first.
But then Evelyn reached out and twined her fingers with Vivienne's, squeezing once.
"I'm glad you think so," she whispered.
Eva only nodded and went back to watching the clouds.
*****
In the afternoon, they built a blanket fort inside the conservatory.
The space was all glass and marble, with tall trees planted into sunken beds and ivy creeping up one corner of the wall. But by the time Eva was finished, it looked like a miniature jungle palace—pillows scattered like stepping stones, books and flashlights arranged for evening reading, and a plush throne made from Evelyn's cashmere throws.
Vivienne rigged a string of fairy lights to drape along the top, and Evelyn filled a tray with finger sandwiches and juice boxes.
"This," Eva declared from her throne, "is where we shall now live."
"And how long is our reign, Your Majesty?" Vivienne asked, placing a tiara made of pipe cleaners on her head.
"Until the moon is tired," Eva replied wisely.
Evelyn leaned against one of the support beams and smiled. "Then I'll cancel my meeting."
"No you won't," Eva said without looking. "But you'll be back before bedtime."
Vivienne watched the two of them—her eyes soft, her expression unreadable—and exhaled slowly.
It felt like the shape of something solidifying. Something that had been fluid and uncertain now taking form. Not a perfect form. But real. Real in a way that made her throat tighten with something tender and frightening.
This was a family.
And she was part of it.
*****
That evening, after dinner and bubble baths and stories told by flashlight in the fort, Evelyn and Vivienne finally settled on the upstairs balcony while Eva slept in a tangle of pillows and books.
The sky was deep navy. The stars were dim against the light pollution, but the air was warm and the city murmured like a distant lullaby.
Vivienne handed Evelyn a glass of wine.
"I think she's going to be okay," she said softly.
Evelyn didn't respond right away. She stared out at the skyline, her features touched with tiredness and wonder.
"She's already more than okay," she said at last. "She's… glowing."
Vivienne nodded. "It's like she's healing faster than we are."
"She doesn't remember everything. Or she does, but it's broken up."
"And she still manages to love so fully," Vivienne murmured.
There was a long pause. Then Evelyn turned to her.
"You know we can't keep this forever."
Vivienne blinked. "What?"
"This quiet. This perfect little peace. Something's going to come eventually. A knock on the door, or a letter, or some forgotten god in a three-piece suit."
Vivienne's expression didn't change. But her jaw tightened.
"I know," she said quietly.
"But for now," Evelyn added, reaching out and brushing a strand of hair behind Vivienne's ear, "we can pretend it'll always be like this. Just for a little longer."
Vivienne leaned into the touch. "I'd pretend forever, if she asked."
"She'd ask."
They both smiled.
And then Evelyn leaned in, and they kissed—longer this time. No glances over shoulders, no listening for footsteps. Just the sound of wind rustling the ivy and the soft, rhythmic breath of a sleeping child below them.
*****
The next morning, Eva woke to find herself tucked back into her own bed, her plush animals arranged like a royal guard around her.
She blinked sleepily at the ceiling.
She knew she'd fallen asleep in the fort. She didn't remember being carried.
But when she turned over, there on her nightstand was a folded paper crane with a note:
We didn't leave you. We just moved you somewhere softer.
Love,
Mama & Auntie
She smiled to herself and tucked the note under her pillow like treasure.
Then she got up, ran to the balcony window, and flung it open.
"Mama! Auntie! You left me! That means ten kisses each!"
From the garden below, two startled faces looked up.
Vivienne clutched her chest dramatically. "Oh no, the kiss tax!"
Evelyn shook her head, laughing. "I told you she'd notice."
"Come up here right now!" Eva shouted. "Or I'm charging interest!"
And they did.
They came.
Ten kisses each.
And then some.