“And?”
I meet his eyes. “And I’m not him.”
Gary is quiet. The clock on the mantle ticks. From the kitchen, I can hear Carol asking Winnie something about the salad and Winnie’s laugh, bright and easy, and I feel my shoulders drop a fraction just from the sound of it.
Gary notices. His eyes move from me toward the kitchen and back.
“She laughs more,” he says, almost like he’s saying it to himself as much as to me.
I don’t answer that. Feels like something I’d mess up if I tried to put words to it.
“She tell you she used to call us every Sunday?” he continues. “Like clockwork, every Sunday at six. Stopped for a while there. When thingswere bad with Derek.” He looks at his hands. “She didn’t want us to worry.”
“That sounds like her.”
“Started again about four months ago.” He looks up. “Calling on Sundays.”
I hold his gaze. I know what he’s telling me. I know what he’s not saying out loud.
“Good,” I say.
He nods once.
Winnie appears in the doorway. “Dinner’s ready.” She looks between us, trying to read the room. “Everything okay?”
“Fine,” her dad says, and pushes up from his chair. He claps me on the shoulder as he passes—once, solid—and heads for the dining room.
Winnie stares at me.What just happened?her face says.
I have no idea, I try to communicate back.
She grabs my hand and squeezes.
Dinner is Carol’s territory, which means it’s warm and loud and full of stories I wasn’t prepared for—Winnie at ten, convinced she could train the neighbor’s cat to do yoga with her. Winnie at sixteen, writing strongly-worded letters to the school board about their PE curriculum.
“She actually sent them,” Carol says, delighted. “Three letters. They changed the curriculum.”
“Of course they did,” I say.
Winnie points at me. “Do not encourage her.”
“I’m just saying—”
“Banks.” She kicks me under the table.
I suppress a grin.
Carol sets down the bread basket and looks atme with the focus of a woman who has decided something.
“How tall are you exactly?”
I glance at Winnie. “Six-four.”
“Six-four.” She nods slowly, like she’s filing it away. “And you weigh—”
“Mom.”
“Two-twenty-five,” I say.
