"I'm staying longer than a couple of days, okay?"
"How much longer?"
"My sister-in-law's baby shower is coming up. I want to be here for it."
Silence stretches on the line. Then he exhales sharply, and I can picture exactly how his face looks—that tight, controlled disappointment.
"Nora, this isn't—" He stops. Recalibrates. "We have commitments. You have commitments. This production doesn't wait because you need to play happy family in some small town."
Play happy family.
My jaw clenches. Heat floods my face.
"These are the people who raised me, Wes. The people who were there when my dad died. When everything fell apart. They're not some obligation I'm tolerating—they're my family."
"I didn't mean it like that."
"Yes, you did."
Another pause. Longer this time. When he speaks again, his voice is softer, more calculated.
"Fine. I'll try to push the meeting and tell them you had a family emergency," he says. "But don't drag this out. We have work to do."
We.Like what's happening is an inconvenience toourschedule.
"I'll let you know when I'm coming back."
"Nora—"
I hang up.
My hand is shaking. My pulse pounds in my ears.
The quiet feels earned.
I stand there for a moment, letting the anger and exhaustion wash over me, staring at the lake like it might have answers.
Footsteps sound behind me.
"Hi."
One word. That's all it takes to get my heart racing like it's already betraying me.
"How long have you been standing there?" I say without turning around.
"Long enough to know you needed a minute."
I let out a breath. "Everyone seems to know what I need these days."
I turn then, and there he is.
Closer than he was at the funeral. Near enough that I have to tilt my head slightly to look at him.
Near enough to see the faint scar above his eyebrow from the time he fell off Jake's bike. Near enough to notice the way his jaw tightens—sharper now, more defined, like he's holding himself back from saying something.
He's wearing a white shirt. Simple, crisp, but the top button is undone, and his sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, forearms that are leaner, stronger, mapped with muscle I don't remember.
And tattoos. New ones. Black ink winding up from his wrists, disappearing under the fabric. I catch glimpses of words, symbols, things I don't recognize because it's been five years since I've seen him up close and bodies change and people become strangers even when they're standing right in front of you.
