“Yeah. She said they might be a little late.”
He nods. “That tracks.”
I smile to myself.
Because I know exactly why they’re late.
And I’m not saying a word.
Not yet.
“They’re going to be such good parents someday,” I say without thinking.
Douglas looks over at me. “Yeah,” he says slowly. “They will.”
I nod, hoping he doesn’t jump to any conclusions. Apparently, I’m not as subtle as I think I am.
Because his gaze lingers.
“Come on,” he says after a second, standing and brushing his hands off. “Help me grab the drinks?”
“Sure,” I say, a little too quickly.
We step inside, the noise of the kids fading just enough to feel like a bubble of quiet.
The second the door closes behind us, he turns to me.
“Okay,” he says.
“Okay what?”
“You made a face.”
“I did not make a face.”
“You did.”
“I definitely didn’t.”
“You did,” he repeats, calm and certain. “When you were talking about your sister being a good parent someday.”
I cross my arms. “You’re imagining things.”
“I’m not.”
“You might be.”
“I’m not.”
I sigh.
Because of course I can’t get anything past him.
“Fine,” I say. “Maybe I made a small face.”
“Still a face.”
I roll my eyes, but I’m smiling.
