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“You never asked.”
She turns away and grips the edge of the counter. When she looks at me again, her eyes are wet.
“I do care about you, Eric.” Her voice catches. “I always have.”
“I believe you.”
Relief softens her face. She takes my answer as forgiveness, and I want to give her that. I’m not asking these questions to punish her. I’m asking because I need to understand. Dad could keep her away when I was a child, but he couldn’t stop her from calling once I was grown. Why didn’t she try then?
Before I can ask, the garage door begins to rise. Mom turns toward the sound, and the tension leaves her shoulders.
“That’s Carl.”
A truck engine rumbles in the garage, then cuts off. Mom checks the lasagna through the oven door and smooths both hands over her dress.
“I want tonight to be nice for him,” she says.
I wasn’t ready for our conversation to end. I still have questions. But her attention has already moved to Carl.
“I’ll leave you to it.”
She doesn’t stop me. “We should have lunch again soon.”
I let myself out before Carl reaches the kitchen.
Outside, I stand on the front step with the door closed behind me, trying to name what I’m feeling. Anger would be easier. I know what to do with anger. This is heavier. It’s the old hurt of waiting for Mom to choose us over her husband, mixed with the shame of still wanting her to.
Arthur watches me approach but doesn’t ask what happened. I slide into the back seat, close the door, and take out my phone.
For a moment, I stare at Rachel’s name. She has plans tonight. I should go home, pour a drink, and lose myself in work until this feeling passes. That’s what I usually do.
Instead, I call her.
She answers after a few rings. “Hello?”
“Do you have time to see me before your plans tonight?”
A brief silence follows. “Is everything okay?”
I look back at Mom’s house. I don’t know how to explain this, and I’m not sure what I need from Rachel. I only know that I want to be where she is.
“Do you have time?” I ask again.
Her voice softens. “Yeah. Of course. Come over. I’ll meet you there.”
I end the call. Arthur waits for an address.
“Rachel’s.”
31
RACHEL
Eric is waiting outside my building when I arrive, and one look at him tells me something is wrong.
His tie is loose, the top button of his shirt is open, and his jacket sits unevenly across his shoulders. His hair is untidy, as if he’s run his hands through it several times. Eric is usually perfectly neat, even at the end of a long day. Tonight, he looks exhausted.
When he sees me, he straightens as though he’s only just remembered where he is.
