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A few feet away, Miles tries to convince him that the entire thing would be better if they added wheels.

“It doesn’t need wheels,” Wells says.

“It would be faster,” Miles replies.

“It isn’t supposed to move.”

Miles lifts one eyebrow.

The expression is so familiar that my chest tightens before I can stop it.

Erica notices.

She sets the knife down and looks at me.

“You did it again,” she says.

I turn toward her. “Did what?”

“That face.”

“I don’t have a face.”

“You absolutely have a face,” Erica replies.

“The one where you’re here, but your mind is somewhere else.”

I glance back toward the boys.

Wells has already returned to his project. Miles is still lobbying aggressively for wheels.

“They remind me of him more now,” I admit.

Erica doesn’t ask who I mean.

“That makes sense,” she says.

“I wish it didn’t.”

She slides a plate toward me.

“Sit down.”

I take the stool beside the island while Erica finishes preparing lunch.

“Thanks for coming over,” I tell her.

“I know I’ve been a little off.”

“A little?”

I give her a look. Erica smiles and takes the stool beside mine.

“I’m not judging you,” she says.

“You came back from London, ended something you clearly didn’t want to end, and now you’re pretending being home makes that painless.”

“I’m not pretending it’s painless.”