Page 172 of Suite 7

“That’s all I’m asking.”

She holds my gaze for one more moment. Something passes between us — not forgiveness yet, but the shape of it. The direction.

Then she closes the door, and I stand in the hallway and let myself feel the full weight of what it means that she opened it at all.

Friday, eight twenty-three PM

* * *

I sit in my car for five minutes with my hands on the steering wheel, breathing.

Relief hits in waves. Not fixed — but okay.

The city moves around me the whole drive over, indifferent, and I let it.

Vera opens her door before I can knock, wearing the same clothes she wore this morning. She takes one look at my face and pulls me inside.

She’s left the kitchen light on. Everything else dark.

I tell her everything. She listens without interrupting, curled into the corner of her couch with her knees pulled to her chest. When I finish she’s quiet for a long moment.

Then she asks the question I knew was coming.

“When is she going to call me?”

I go still.

“Kane.” Her voice shifts, reading me. “What did she say about me?”

“She needs more time.”

“How much more time?”

“She didn’t say.”

Vera pulls back slightly. “So she forgave you but she’s not ready to talk to me.”

“She didn’t forgive me. She said she’d try. That’s not the same thing.” I hold her gaze. “She wasn’t ready to include you in that yet.”

Her face falls. Then her shoulders drop, and she goes still — the stillness of someone who already knew the answer before she asked.

“That’s fair,” she says.

“Vee—”

“No, it is.” She looks at her hands. “You’re her brother. That’s different. Whatever you did, you’re still her family. I’m—“ She stops.

“You’re important to her, Vee.” I say.

“I’m the best friend who lied to her face.”

I want to argue. I can’t.

“So what do I do?” she asks. “Just wait?”

“Yes.”

“For how long?”