“George,” she acknowledges. She already knows who I am. “He didn’t mention you were coming.”
“He doesn’t know.”
She studies me for a beat, then steps aside. “Second floor. End of the hall. He’s had a rough few weeks.”
“I know.”
She bows a little, then lets me in.
The inside is exactly what you’d expect from a family like this—wide hallways, dark wood, art on the walls. Luxury. A farcry from my place back home. My boots sound loud as fuck on the polished floors.
I leave the trolley at the bottom of the stairs and head up. I find the door at the end of the hall cracked open and hear his voice inside—low, tired, talking to someone on the phone about schedules, treatments or whatever shit he’s been carrying.
I knock once and push the door open. His room is bigger than my bedroom and living room combined. High ceilings, tall windows looking out over a garden and the gray edge of the city. Expensive furniture that doesn’t try too hard. But it’s still him in here. Books stacked crooked on the nightstand, a couple of his hoodies thrown over a chair like he never learned how to hang shit up. A photo of him and Eleanor on the dresser.
Lance is sitting in the middle of the bed, laptop open, phone to his ear. The second his eyes land on me his whole face changes. The sentence dies. He says something short into the phone and drops it on the mattress. He’s on his feet and crossing the room before I’ve even cleared the doorway.
“What the—George?” His voice cracks. “You’re here. You actually flew up here.”
“Hey.”
“Don’t just ‘hey’ me, you asshole.” He gets both hands fisted in my flannel and pulls me in. His mouth crashes into mine like he’s been waiting four weeks to do exactly this. I wrap my arms around him and drag him closer. For a long minute, the rest of the world can fuck off. He tastes like coffee and relief, and I realize how bad I’ve been missing this exact thing.
“You flew here,” he says it like he can’t believe it.
“Couldn’t take it anymore.”
“Couldn’t take what—”
“You not being there.” I pull back just enough to look at him. He looks tired—shadows under his eyes, shoulders too tight.
“Yeah.” He shakes his head once. “I was getting pretty fucking tired of doing this without you around.”
We don’t make it much further than the door for a while.
That evening, Eleanor descends downstairs for a few minutes before she retires.
She moves carefully, Patrice close but not hovering. She glides into the sitting room and finds me standing there. She doesn’t look all too bothered a strange man is in her house.
Then she holds out her hand.
I shake it. Her grip is light but steady.
“George.”
“Mrs. Bradford.”
She reads my eyes. Then she turns towards Lance, who’s leaning in the doorway watching us both like he’s waiting for a verdict.
“He’s quiet,” she says to Lance.
“That’s the nicest thing you’ve said about one of my friends in years,” Lance says, deadpan. “I’m touched. Really.”
“Good.”
She pats my hand once, fingers light over my knuckles, and then she and Patrice move toward the stairs.
Lance peels himself off the doorframe before he drops onto the couch beside me, his shoulder against mine. “She likes you.”
