"Blackwood!" Connor's voice booms from the hallway. He appears, phone in hand, face splitting into a grin. "You made it!"
He pulls me into one of those back-slapping man-hugs that's more collision than embrace. I return it, grateful for the interruption. Grateful to look away from Lucy and the flush still on her cheeks.
"Traffic was light."
"Good, good. You look like hell, man."
"Thanks."
Connor laughs. "Come on, I'll show you where you're staying." He glances at Lucy. "Lulu, you good? Sounded like the tree attacked you."
"Fine," she says, too bright. "Clumsy."
She won't look at me. She's straightening the tree skirt, fussing with lights, doing anything but making eye contact. I followConnor toward the stairs, but I can feel her presence behind me like heat from a fire.
Connor takes the steps two at a time. "So the renovation's taking longer than expected. Foundation issues, then we found mold. Whole mess. We're all camping out here at Dad's until it's done. You're in the guest room, Emma and I are in the master with Maisie, and Dad's got his room. You and Lucy share a bathroom, jack-and-jill style, so knock before you go in. She takes forever in there but swears she's getting better about it."
Shared bathroom. Of course.
He opens the door to a medium-sized room. Queen bed, dresser, window overlooking the backyard. "Bathroom's through there." He points to a door on the right wall. "Try not to use all the hot water. Lucy gets cranky."
"Got it."
Connor leans against the doorframe. "Glad you're here, man. Feels like old times. Plus, Lucy's been driving us all crazy with the Christmas stuff. Maybe you can distract her a little."
Distract her. Right.
"How long are you staying?"
"Through New Year's. I've got contract talks in January, but until then I'm supposed to rest the shoulder and stay out of trouble."
"Well, you picked the right place for that. Nothing but quiet and Christmas spirit here." He grins. "Dinner's at six. Emma's cooking, so it'll be edible. I'll let you get settled."
He leaves. I sit on the bed and pull out my phone. Seventeen notifications. I delete them without reading.
My shoulder aches. I roll it, feeling the tightness. The doctors say it's healing, but it needs time. That's why I'm here instead of Boston, where the media circus never stops.
I unpack. Clothes in the dresser. When I put my razor by the bathroom sink, I notice the other stuff. Perfume. A toothbrush in a cat-shaped holder. Hair ties and bobby pins.
Lucy's stuff.
I back out of the bathroom and close the door to my side. Stand there staring at the white-painted wood.
This is fine. We're adults. We can share a bathroom without it being weird. I've known Lucy since she was six years old.
Except I'm not thinking about six-year-old Lucy. I'm thinking about the woman in my arms. The curve of her waist. The way she felt pressed against me. The heat in her eyes before she looked away.
This is not fine.
Dinner is as uncomfortable as I expected.
Jim Wright sits at the head of the table, older and grayer but still solid. He grips my hand with both of his. Doesn't say anything about Martha, but I see it in his eyes.
Emma is Connor's wife. Easy confidence, marketing consultant. She hugs me as if we're old friends. Their daughter Maisie is three, talking nonstop about cookies and Santa.
And Lucy. Lucy sits across from me in a green sweater, hair pulled back. She keeps her eyes on her plate except when she has to look at someone else. Even then, she doesn't look at me.
But I look at her. I can'tstoplooking.
