CHAPTER 153: April

POV: Selene Castellano

“You’re not sleeping,” Avalon said.

“I’m sleeping.”

“You were awake at 2am, 3:15am and somewhere around 4am you got up and I heard you in the kitchen.”

“I was thirsty.”

“For two hours.”

She put down her coffee.

“The foundation board presentation is on Thursday,” she said. “Year two priorities, the land trust update, Grace Kim’s stability framework formally adopted as policy. It’s a lot.”

“It’s always a lot,” he said. “You were sleeping fine last week.”

“Last week I wasn’t twenty weeks pregnant.”

“You were nineteen weeks pregnant.”

“One week makes a difference.”

He looked at her.

“What’s actually wrong?” he asked.

She looked at her coffee.

“I keep thinking about how much I won’t be able to control,” she said. “When she’s here. The foundation, the work and everything we’ve built. I won’t be able to just — be there for all of it.”

“Amara will be there.”

“Amara isn’t me.”

“Amara is arguably more organized than you.”

“That’s not the point.”

“Then what is it?”

“I built it,” she said. “I want to be there for it.”

“You will be,” he said. “Not every day, maybe, but you’ll be there.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Selene.” He crossed to the counter and stood in front of her. “You’re going to have a daughter who watches what you do. What do you want her to see?”

She looked at him.

“That’s manipulative,” she said.

“Is it working?”

“Slightly,” she said. “Yes.”

The board presentation on Thursday ran for 90 minutes.

Daniel Frost asked seven questions, which was two more than usual, which Amara later said meant he was genuinely engaged rather than just performing scrutiny.

James presented the land trust update.

Grace Kim, now formally on the foundation’s advisory council, spoke for twelve minutes about the stability framework adoption and what it meant practically for year two funding decisions.

Selene presented last.

She talked about Kevin Walsh’s program. About a young man named Darius who had been in the program for four months and had just started a part-time job and was still housed and was learning what stability felt like for the first time in three years.

“That’s one person,” she said. “Darius is 21 years old. We know his name because our case manager knows his name. That’s what stability looks like.”

The room was quiet.

Daniel Frost wrote something down and after the meeting he stopped her in the corridor.

“Darius,” he said.

“Yes.”

“How many more Dariuses are in the pipeline?”

“Forty seven applications to the infrastructure fund,” she said. “Each one is someone’s Darius.”

He looked at her for a moment.

“Keep going,” he said. “Whatever you need from the board, just keep going.”

He walked away.

Amara appeared at her elbow.

“Daniel Frost just told you to keep going,” she said.

“He did.”

“That might be the most words he’s said consecutively since I’ve known him.”

“It might be,” Selene agreed.

She called Kevin afterward.

“I used Darius in the board presentation,” she said. “Just his situation.”

“He’d want you to use his name,” Kevin said. “He told me last week he wants people to know. He said if his story helps one more person get housed it’s worth it.”

“Can I have permission in writing,” she said. “For future communications.”

“I’ll get it to you tomorrow,” Kevin said. Then: “How are you doing? Really.”

“Twenty weeks pregnant and running a foundation,” she said. “So.”

“So a lot,” he said.

“My mother asks about you,” he said. “Every time I talk to her. She says the woman who named the fund after Nene Pierce is someone worth keeping track of.”

Selene smiled.

“Tell her thank you,” she said.

“Tell her yourself,” Kevin said. “Come to the program next week. She volunteers on Thursdays.”

“I’ll be there Thursday,” Selene said.

She told Avalon at dinner.

“Kevin’s mother volunteers at the program on Thursdays,” she said.

“I know,” he said.

“How do you know that?”

“Kevin told me three weeks ago.”

“You and Kevin talk?”

“We text occasionally,” he said. “Is that strange?”

“No,” she said. “It’s good.” She looked at him. “You’ve changed.”

“I’ve been changing,” he said. 

 “Yes. I know.” She pointed at him with her fork. “You’re not allowed to use my phrases.”

“Our phrases,” he said.

“When did they become our phrases?”

“When you started saying them and I started meaning them,” he said.

She looked at him.

“That almost made sense,” she said.