"She seems great," Wyatt says.
"She is."
"How long have you?—"
"Few months."
He nods. Turns his sandwich. Turns it back. His hands shake. I notice, and I don't know what to do with the noticing.
"Delaney said you didn't want to come."
"Delaney drove ten hours to ask me for money."
His jaw sets. "That's not?—"
"She was on the hospital bills inside two minutes, Wyatt."
"She's stressed. We both are. Mama's got no insurance worth a damn, and the house needs?—"
"I'll handle the bills."
He stops. Stares at me.
"Whatever the medical costs are, I'll handle them. Send me the statements." My coffee's bitter. I drink it anyway. "But that's not why I came."
"Then why?"
Because at four in the morning in a cabin in Oregon, there's nothing to do but think, and I've spent six years thinking about what it would feel like if she died and I hadn't shown up.
I don't say that.
"Because she asked," I say.
Wyatt looks at his hands. His eyes go wet.
"Aiden, I'm sorry."
"Don't."
"I need to say?—"
"You don't need to say anything." My voice comes out flat. Controlled. "It was twelve years ago. I didn't come here for an apology. I came to see Mama."
"But I?—"
"Wyatt." I set my coffee down. "If you want to apologize, apologize. But don't do it here. Don't do it today. And don't do it because she's dying and you need it off your chest before she goes. That's for you. Not for me."
He flinches.
Paige comes back with three waters. Sets one in front of each of us. Sits beside me. Her knee finds mine under the table. I don't lean into it.
Something in her face shifts.
The rest of the visit is polite. Careful. Wyatt talks about the house, the yard, the neighbor who's been mowing while he's been at the hospital. Paige asks the right questions, laughs in the right places, carries the conversation when I go quiet, which is most of the time.
On the way out, Delaney's in the lobby.
She's sitting in a plastic chair with her phone, legs crossed, and she stands when she sees us. Her eyes go to Paige first. Then to me.
