But the wordfamilylingers.
The drive home is quiet.
Henry stares out the window, content. He's already moved past what happened. Lindsay sits beside him, fingers rubbing the strap of her bag absently.
I catch her reflection in the rearview mirror.
She looks thoughtful. Uncertain. Like she knows she’s crossed into something that isn't hers.
***
Later, Henry is asleep.
The house settles into a quieter rhythm, the kind that invites reflection whether you want it to or not.
I find Lindsay in the kitchen, standing near the counter, tapping her handbag absently. The sparkle catches the low light, muted but still unmistakablyher.
She doesn't look up when I enter.
"I didn't mean to put you in that position today," she says. "At the school."
"You didn't," I reply.
She glances up, unconvinced.
"Henry shouldn't have said that," she continues, voice careful. "Called me family. It complicates things."
"He said what he believes," I answer, before I can filter it.
But the thought rankles. Because if Henry is leaning into Lindsay, looking to her for approval, what does that make me?
That earns a pause.
She studies me, searching for something I haven't articulated yet.
"That worried you," she says—not accusing. Observing.
"It surprised me," I correct.
She nods slowly, understanding the distinction.
"It surprised me too."
The space between us feels insufficient. Too small for the distance we've been pretending exists.
"I don't want to confuse him," she says quietly. "Or you."
"You're not," I say, and realize I mean it.
Her breath catches—just slightly.
Not a signal. A reaction.
I take a step closer, closing the gap I've been maintaining since the museum. Since the movie. Since the kitchen. Since every moment we've orbited each other without acknowledging what's building.
"Lindsay."
She tilts her head, meeting my gaze fully now.
