"Nate! I wasn't expecting you."
"Hey, Mom."
I cross the kitchen and pull her into a hug before she can say anything else.
She makes a small sound of surprise, then melts into it, her arms coming around me tight. We stand there for a moment, just holding each other, and I realize how much I needed this.
When I pull back, she's looking at me with that expression mothers get when they're trying to read their children like books.
"You look refreshed," she says, studying my face. "What have you been up to?"
"Getting outside more," I say, but even as the words leave my mouth, an image flashes through my mind—Nora this morning, tangled in my sheets, hair spread across my pillow, skin still flushed from sleep and what we'd done before sleep.
How she'd smiled at me, soft and unguarded. How she'd traced the tattoos on my ribs while we talked about nothing and everything.
I must have some kind of expression on my face because Mom's eyebrows rise slightly.
"Outside," she repeats, and there's amusement in her voice now. "Is that what we're calling it?"
"Mom—"
"You're glowing, Nate." She turns back to her strawberries, but the smile tugging at her lips is visible. "And I haven't seen you glow like that in a really long time."
I run a hand through my hair, feeling suddenly like a teenager caught sneaking in after curfew.
"I'm happy for you," she interrupts gently, cupping my face in the palm of her hand. "Whatever—or whoever—is putting that light back in your eyes, I'm grateful for it."
"Thanks, Mom."
She nods, then narrows her eyes slightly, reading me the way only mothers can, before she turns back to washing her strawberries.
"But that's not why you're here, is it? What's going on?"
I take a breath, trying to find the right words, only to realizethere aren't any. No perfect way to say this that won't shake her foundation.
"Dom's in town."
Her hands pause mid-rinse. The strawberry she's holding slips from her fingers back into the colander, and the color drains slightly from her face.
"What?" The word comes out barely above a whisper.
"He came by the studio yesterday."
She turns to face me fully, one hand gripping the edge of the sink like she needs it for balance.
Her mind racing, trying to process, trying to understand.
"Why would he—how did he even know where to find you?"
"He saw an interview. Must have hunted down the address from there." I move closer, wanting to be near enough to catch her if this is too much. "He's been trying to call me for weeks now. I just didn't know the number, so I didn't answer."
She's searching my expression now, looking for something.
"You talked to him?"
“I did.”
"And you're..." She pauses, seems to recalibrate. "How are you feeling about all this?"
