Page 155 of ClickBack

Friday in San Antonio is hot enough that Giselle stops talking when the airport doors open.

“August,” Graves says beside her.

“I’m acquainted with August. This feels personal.”

I take her bag while she removes the light cardigan she wore on the plane. She has been going through the itinerary since we landed, checking which time belongs to the team and which belongs to us. I like hearing her ask whether we can get somewhere Sunday before our flight. I like that she expects part of the weekend to be ours.

A driver takes us to the hotel. The team coordinator sends Cam an updated schedule, and Cam forwards it to both of us. No one needs a story about why I’m here. Philadelphia agreed to the discussions. What can come out of them is still limited, and Cam has made those limits everybody’s problem.

Mom is waiting in the lobby in white linen and silver earrings, talking to a woman at the desk. She sees Graves first.

“Wendell, you could have told me you were downstairs.”

“Just got here.”

She hugs him, then me. When she steps back, she looks past my shoulder at Giselle, and I remember being young enough for Mom to read my face before I told her anything.

“Mom, this is Giselle.”

“Denise,” she says, holding out her hand. “I’m glad you came.”

“So am I.”

“I’ve heard quite a bit. Mostly from him, which is unusual.”

“Mom.”

She looks at me. “You called me about a woman you’d known a couple of days. You think I wasn’t going to remember?”

Giselle turns toward me. I can see her storing that for when we’re alone.

“He was concerned about my jump shot,” she tells Mom.

“He did mention losing.”

“By one,” I say.

Mom keeps looking at Giselle. “I’m pleased you have other things to talk about now.”

Graves takes a sudden interest in the check-in desk. I know that look. He’s trying not to laugh where I can see him.

Mom tells us dinner is at seven and that Von has made the reservation. She has already sent Giselle the restaurant link through me, but she asks whether the menu works for her anyway. They talk about a dish Giselle noticed. Neither one needs me to keep it going.

When we head toward the elevators, Mom touches my arm.

“She’s pretty.”

“I know.”

“I wasn’t finished. Go on.”

I laugh and join Giselle, who is waiting with the bag I took from her at the airport because she has somehow gotten it back.

Upstairs, I set both bags inside the door. She puts hers on the luggage stand, looks around the suite, then turns toward me.

“You called your mother?”

“She called me.”