Page 54 of Falling For My Ex's Older Brother

"Deborah," my father says. One word.

She ignores him completely.

"Tell me about yourself," she says to Sutton — and the register of it is unmistakable. Not small talk. Actual interest.

She turns her full attention to Sutton and I step back. My father moves beside me and we both watch the room.

My mother keeps talking with Sutton for a while. I watch them from where my father and I are standing — my mother leaning in when Sutton speaks, asking questions, her expression doing the thing it does when someone has said something worth remembering. She's engaged in a way I haven't seen her engaged with someone in my orbit in years.

My father and I talk. That's what we do in these rooms — we find each other and we talk because we are both more comfortable in conversation than in observation, and the conversation is always the same register. Business. Golf. The world as a set of problems to be managed.

"Heard the Vantage acquisition closed," he says.

"Last week," I say. "Clean deal. Good terms."

"Mitchell involved?"

"He brought it to the table. I restructured the terms before we signed." I take a drink.

"His instincts are good. His execution needs work."

My father nods. We watch the room for a moment.

"Played Winged Foot last month," he says.

"East course. Your game would hold up."

"I haven't been out enough this season."

"Make the time." He says it simply — not a lecture, just a fact. He finishes his drink and sets the glass on a passing tray. He looks across the room toward where my mother is still in conversation with Sutton. Then he looks at me.

"She holds her own," he says.

Two seconds. Then he moves across the room toward Sutton. That's all. I stand there with those four words.

My mother appears at my side shortly after. She has the look — the one that means she has observed something and has decided I need to hear about it whether I've asked or not.

"She's impressive," she says. Not gushing. Just accurate.

"She's good at what she does."

My mother gives me a look. "Logan." She says my name the way she's been saying it for forty-six years when she wants me to stop deflecting.

"You seem different tonight."

"I'm fine, Mom."

"I didn't say you weren't fine. I said you're different." She looks out at the room.

"You're calm. You're — present. I don't usually see that at these things." She pauses.

"I notice these things."

I say nothing. She looks at me for a moment longer. Then she touches my arm once — brief, light. She moves away without pushing further.

I stand there. I look across the room. Sutton is in conversation again — easy, natural, working the room the way she's learned to work it over months of this. I watch her for a moment. Then I make my way toward her.

My hand finds the small of her back when I reach her side. Not for the room. Just because it does. It's been doing that all night and I've stopped pretending it means nothing.