Wade opened the door before either of us could make the moment worse.
Cold air hit first, clean and sharp with the smell of winter grass and somebody’s fireplace. I stepped out, then helped Isa down because her leg got stiff after flights even when she pretended it didn’t.
She let me.
That was new too.
In August, she would have rather fallen face-first into traffic than accept help. Now her hand rested on my shoulder, light buttrusting, and she looked up at me for half a second like I was allowed to steady her.
It did something brutal to my chest.
“Ready?” she asked.
“No.”
That surprised her.
Good.
I smiled anyway and took her hand.
“Let’s go impress your mother.”
The front door opened before we reached it.
“Baby girl.”
Mrs. Calloway came out like she had been waiting for a camera cue.
She was beautiful in the way women looked when money, discipline, and fear of aging formed a strategic alliance. Dark hair blown smooth. Cashmere wrap. Diamonds at her ears. Smile bright enough to cut. She swept Isa into a hug that somehow managed to look affectionate and assessed at the same time.
“My goodness,” she said, leaning back to look at her daughter. “You’re too thin. Rehab is eating you alive.”
Isa’s shoulders tightened.
I noticed.
Of course I noticed.
Then Mrs. Calloway’s eyes moved to me.
And stayed.
“Oh,” she said.
One syllable.
Too soft.
Too interested.
Isa’s hand slid into mine.
“Mom, this is Drew Travers.”
I could have kissed her for using Travers.
Not Montgomery.
