I catch myself slowing down at each one, marking them in my mind like I might need them later.
Tomorrow.
If I can handle tomorrow.
Irene and Susan walk ahead, deep in conversation, silhouetted by the glow of storefronts. Their voices drift behind them—warm, steady, familiar.
Mason hangs back with me.
“So,” he says, shoving his hands in his pockets, breath clouding in the cold air. “Seriously. What’s your story?”
I stiffen.
There it is.
The question I can’t escape.
“I don’t have one,” I say quickly.
He raises a brow. “Everyone has one.”
“Well,” I snap, “what’s yours?”
He stops walking.
Looks me dead in the eyes.
A beat passes.
Then he lifts both hands in surrender.
“All right, all right, all right,” he says. “Message received.”
We fall into step again.
He kicks a pebble into the street before he starts talking.
“I was overweight as a kid,” he says. “Like… really overweight. Full glasses, J. Crew catalogs worth of outfits—designer threads over my marsh-mellow body, bowl cut, the whole tragic package.”
I blink. “You?”
He laughs. “Yeah. Shocking, right? Irene and Thom had me late. I was the miracle baby. The miracle baby who appeared right after Mom’s beloved dog died.”
I snort. “What does that have to do with anything?”
“You ever meet an Italian woman grieving her soulmate dog?” he asks. “They fix grief with food. A lot of it. I was basically raised on carbs and affection. Mostly carbs.”
I can’t help it—my lips twitch.
“So you were the fat kid?” I ask gently.
“Oh yeah,” he says. “The fat kid who sat in the corner eating biscotti from the secret stash Mom didn’t think Dad knew about.”
“What changed?”
“My dad had enough,” he says simply. “One day he walked into the kitchen, looked at me, looked at the cookies, looked at Mom, and said, ‘That’s it. He needs a sport.’”
He shrugs.
