From the bathroom doorway, Jack watched us with the indifference only a plant could muster. He looked healthier these days. Less like a living rebuke. More like something that required consistent care, and Ellis had been good at that. Was good at that.
I fell asleep wrapped up in someone who stayed, someone who learned how to stay, someone who showed up even when I was too broken to recognize what that looked like.
The city hummed outside. Tomorrow could wait.
Chapter thirty-nine
Ellis picked the restaurant. A small Italian place in Carroll Gardens with dim lighting, cloth napkins, and a bread basket that took the edge off most nervousness.
Almost.
“They’re going to be here in twelve minutes,” he said, checking his phone for the fourth time since we sat down.
“I know.”
“My mom is always early. If she says seven-thirty, she means seven-fifteen. My dad will want to circle the block twice looking for parking, even though I told them to take the subway.”
“Ellis.” I put my hand over his on the table. “Breathe.”
“I’m breathing.”
“You’re hyperventilating in a nice shirt.”
He glanced down at himself. Three outfit changes before we left, a habit I was starting to think he’d caught from me. He’d settled on a navy button-down that made his eyes look even bluer, frankly unnecessary. The man didn’t need optical assistance.
“What if my dad doesn’t talk?” He leaned forward. “He does this thing where he goes completely quiet and just… observes. It’s terrifying. Like being studied by a marine biologist.”
“I’ve survived worse. Your mother?”
“She’ll talk. She’ll talk a lot. She’ll ask about your job, your family, where you went to school, what your five-year plan is.”
“Event planner. Complicated family. Didn’t finish college. My five-year plan revolves around keeping your son happy.”
His mouth twitched. “Lead with the event planning.”
They arrived at seven-eighteen. His mom, Linda, walked in wearing a cream blazer and an expression trying hard to be open-minded. His dad, Greg, shared Ellis’ jaw and the posture of a man who’d coached Little League for fifteen years, still standing like he was waiting for the National Anthem.
I stood up, wiped my palms on my thighs under the table first.
“Mom, Dad.” Ellis’ voice cracked on the second word. I pretended not to notice. “This is Jett.”
I extended my hand to Linda. She took it, grip firm, smile practiced.
“Nice to meet you, Jett.” The pronunciation came out rehearsed, like she’d practiced it in the car.
“Really nice to meet you, Mrs. Ashford. Ellis talks about you all the time.”
“Good things, I hope?”
“Always.” A small lie. But the right one.
Greg shook my hand the way men did when they believed handshakesrevealed character. His eyes scanned my face like they were cataloging data. Marine biologist energy, except the specimen was me.
“Jett.” Just the name. No modifier.
“Sir.”
He blinked at the “sir.” His posture eased. In Greg Ashford’s body language, probably a bear hug.
