His mouth curves faintly. “You saw the watch campaign, right?”
For a brief moment, I almost laugh. “The what?”
“The deal with Valerion.” He smiles proudly. “I’m in the big leagues now.”
“It’s a big accomplishment. Congratulations are in order.” The truth is, I cannot imagine anything more inane. But, Connor appears rather pleased with the achievement, thus I will be happy for him. Or, I’ll let him think I am. “Should I break out the good stuff?”
Connor smirks. “Not needed. Save that for my next big campaign.” The corner of his mouth lifts again, and for the first time this evening the tension in the room loosens slightly.
It’s a small thing. But it feels like progress.
There are many things one might ask a son after twenty-six years of a loosely defined relationship. Career ambitions, personal interests, future plans. Safe topics that sit comfortably on the surface of a conversation.
Instead, I find myself asking something else. “When was the last time you saw your sisters?”
Connor’s hand pauses halfway to the table. The reaction is small, but it’s there. “Myrna and Orla?”
“Yes.”
He sets the bottle down and leans back slightly in his chair. The casual confidence he carries so easily returns, though it feels a bit more deliberate this time. “It’s been a while.”
“How long is a while?”
Connor shrugs. “Couple months, maybe.”
I let that sit for a moment.
Myrna and Orla are technically Connor’s half sisters, though the three of them have never quite settled into anything resembling a sibling dynamic. The girls were always polite when Connor appeared during family events, but politeness is not the same thing as closeness.
“I suspect they would enjoy seeing you.”
Connor huffs faintly. “They’ve never exactly chased me down for lunch.”
“That may be because they’re attempting to respect your boundaries.”
“Myboundaries.”
“Yes.”
Connor studies me as though I have just suggested something faintly ridiculous. “They have my number.”
“They do.”
“So if they wanted to reach out…”
“They might worry about intruding.”
Myrna and Orla grew up in a household that understood Connor existed but rarely knew quite what to do with that information.
Connor picks up his fork again, though he doesn’t actually eat anything. “So the suggestion is… what?”
“That you might reach out first.”
His mouth pulls sideways. “Why should I?”
The question is blunt, but not hostile.
“Because relationships tend to require invitations,” I reply.
