"Yeah?"
I stepped forward and hugged him. It was impulsive, my arms around his shoulders, his flannel soft under my hands. He went still, like he'd forgotten how this worked, and I pulled back just enough to kiss his cheek. Quick, before I could talk myself out of it.
He stared at me. Not upset. Just stunned.
"Same time next week," I said. "I'll be there."
The corner of his mouth lifted, warmer than I'd seen before. "Okay. Good."
I was still smiling when he dropped me home.
His house wasn't finished, but it was being built right. Carefully, with patience. I thought about that for the rest of the night.
CHAPTER 23: MATT
Mom was having a bad morning.
I knew it the moment I came downstairs and saw Dad's face. He was at the stove, scrambling eggs with the kind of focused intensity that meant he was trying not to think about something else.
"Morning," I said.
"Morning." He didn't look up. "Your mother's in the living room."
I poured coffee and went to find her.
She was sitting in her chair by the window, still in her bathrobe, staring out at the yard. The TV was on but she wasn't watching it.
"Morning, Mom."
She turned to look at me. Her eyes searched my face for something she couldn't find.
"Good morning," she said finally. Polite and distant, the way you'd greet a stranger.
I sat down on the couch across from her. "How'd you sleep?"
"Fine, thank you." She looked back at the window. "Are you here to fix something?"
My throat tightened. "No. I live here. I'm Matthew. Your son."
"Oh." She nodded slowly, like she was trying to place me. "Matthew. Yes."
But I could see it in her eyes. She was agreeing because that seemed like the right thing to do.
Dad appeared in the doorway. "Breakfast is ready, Carol."
"Oh, wonderful." She stood up, still looking at me with that careful confusion. "Will you be joining us, young man?"
"Yeah," I said. My voice came out rough. "I'll be joining you."
We ate breakfast. Dad kept up a steady stream of conversation, talking about the weather, the neighbor's dog, anything to fill the silence. Mom responded occasionally, pleasant but vague, like she was at a dinner party with people she'd just met.
When she excused herself to go upstairs and get dressed, Dad and I sat at the table without speaking.
"She'll have a better day tomorrow," he said finally. "Yesterday she remembered the name of our old dog. Brought up Rusty out of nowhere, clear as day."
I nodded. Didn't trust myself to speak.
"You should go," Dad said. "I've got it handled here. You'll be late for your shift."
