Page 166 of His Surrender

For several seconds, I think he will refuse to answer.

He has that look again, the distant one he gets whenever he is searching for a way out of a conversation. His gaze drifts toward the windows. His jaw works once, then stills.

When he finally speaks, his voice is so quiet that I have to lean closer to hear him.

“Do you know how my mother died?”

I blink. The question catches me completely off guard.

“I know she died when you were a teenager.”

He nods once. “That’s all?”

“Yes.”

I think back through everything I have heard over the years. Our families have known one another for as long as I can remember, but Dean’s mother died when I was so little. By the time I was old enough to understand who she had been, her death belonged to the past. Something sad the adults never discussed in detail.

“No one ever told me how,” I say.

Dean lowers his head. “She was killed in a car accident.”

My heart sinks. “Oh, Dean.”

“She was coming home from work.”

The way he says it makes something cold move through me.

He does not sound like a thirty-four-year-old man telling me about an event that happened nineteen years ago. He sounds younger.

“She worked at a hospital,” he continues. “Most nights, she was home by six. Sometimes later, if she got held up, but she always called.”

His fingers uncurl slowly, only to clasp together a second later.

“That night, she didn’t.”

I stop rubbing his arm. Not because I want to, but because every part of me has gone still.

“Dad made dinner. I remember there was a casserole dish in the center of the table, and the top started drying out because it sat there so long.”

His gaze remains fixed on his hands.

“At first, neither of us was worried. She was twenty minutes late. Then thirty.” The words become more measured, as though he has to force each one past something closing in his throat.

His breathing changes. “Dad called the hospital. They told him she had left on time.”

I watch his hands begin to shake again.

“He called her cell. No answer. He called again. Then he started walking through the house.” Dean releases a breath that sounds almost like a laugh, except there is no humor in it. “He kept pretending he was doing things. Checking dinner. Looking for something in a drawer. Going to the window.” His mouth tightens. “But he was pacing.” Dean’s eyes close. “He walked from the kitchen to the front window and back again. Over and over.”

I can see it as he speaks.

A younger Dean sitting in a house filled with food that no one wants to eat. His father moving from room to room.

The empty driveway beyond the glass. Every set of approaching headlights offering hope for one second before passing.

“I asked if we should eat,” he says. “Dad told me no. He said she would be home soon.” His voice cracks on the final word.

I move closer without thinking. My knee presses against his, and I slide my hand down until our fingers meet. Dean grips mine so hard that it almost hurts.