I shrug. “Not one you probably want to hear.”
“Try me,” he says with a half-grin. “I just rushed a frat. You don’t even want to know what they did to me.”
I snort.
A real laugh threatens, small and weak, but there.
He nudges my shoulder lightly.
“See? We all go through hell. Some hells just have better haircuts.”
I roll my eyes, but the tension in my chest loosens a fraction.
His flirty energy isn’t heavy or pushy.
It’s just enough to distract me.
To keep me from drowning in my own thoughts.
And right now, distraction might be the only thing keeping me upright.
The SUV turns a corner toward a row of pubs lit with fairy lights.
My reflection in the window blurs with the glow of the street.
Short hair.
Red eyes.
Shaky smile.
Dinner is loud in the way families can be loud without trying.
We end up at a pub tucked between a bookstore and a pottery shop, all dark wood and old brass lamps and windows fogged from heat. Irene orders clam chowder for everyone before I even open the menu. It arrives steaming, salty, creamy. I stir mine more than I eat it.
Thom tells a story about a case he’s reviewing. Irene interrupts with corrections. Aunt Susan rolls her eyes in a way that means she’s heard this one before.
It’s normal.
Too normal.
I feel like I’m watching it through a layer of glass.
Mason sits beside me, drumming his fingers on the table, cracking jokes, trying to get me to smile. Sometimes he succeeds. Sometimes he doesn’t.
When the plates are cleared, Irene bundles up, pats her husband’s arm, and says, “We’re walking the long way back. Town looks too pretty to waste it. You take the car home.”
Outside, holiday lights glow against the dusk like tiny constellations strung between the rooftops.
Most of the shops have closed early—Sunday hours—but the windows still show their treasures.
A jewelry shop filled with pearls.
A bookstore displaying holiday bestsellers.
An art gallery with watercolor seascapes.
A trinket shop full of glass ornaments that sparkle like little planets.
