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“Don’t worry, no one was watching, and even if they were, they’ll just think it’s a trick of the light,” Charles said. “Ease up!”

Grayson wanted to—he wanted to be as insouciant as Charles and Lucy were, but he couldn’t. Not after all those years of being unwanted, forgotten, ignored. Grayson bristled, pushing the thought away. Straightening his back, he walked with Charles farther inside.

The restaurant was a smaller space than Crawley Books and much neater, to be sure. The walls were decorated with Mexican folk art: colorful skulls and plants and flowers. The rest of the restaurant was arranged with neat wooden tables, each with indigo ceramic place settings, seating either two or four.

The space was largely unoccupied, as would be expected at five on a weeknight, but there was one middle-aged couple eating appetizers and drinking fruity cocktails, and another table with three old men.

“There they are!” Charles cried, and the men turned at the sound of his voice.

“Charles!”

“Look who’s back!”

They cheered, getting up with their creaking bones to give Charles hugs and heartfelt punches as he rushed forward. Grayson was glad about how happy the men were to see Charles. They looked vaguely familiar, as if he had seen them around Main Street before.

“Couldn’t let you have all the fun without me!” Charles said, laughing along with them. He turned to Grayson, motioning with his hand. “Come, come.”

Grayson awkwardly stepped forward, and the men’s attention turned to him. They all had old faces filled with wrinkles, yet their energy was that of teenagers as they regarded Grayson.

“This is my grandson,” Charles said, and Grayson’s heart warmed to be claimed in such a way. “Grayson, this is William, he runs the pub across the street.”

“If you need a pint, I’ve got you sorted,” William said with a wink, shaking Grayson’s hand. He had pale skin and hair nearly as white as Charles’s.

“This is Michael,” Charles continued, and Grayson shook his hand as well. He was also white, though slightly younger than William.

“My wife, Simone, runs the Pilates studio on the other side of Crawley Books,” Michael said. “You might have seen her around.” Grayson suspected he had, actually. He’d seen Lucy speaking with a woman in athletic gear out on the street a few times, and the woman always returned back to the Pilates studio.

“Patrick, of course,” Charles continued, pointing out a man with warm beige skin and salt-and-pepper hair.

“A school friend of Michael’s, so I get to crash their parties,” Patrick said, shaking Grayson’s hand. He laughed.

“What about me?” another old man said, pulling an extra chair up. Charles rolled his eyes.

“I was getting to you!” Charles shook his head. “This is Francisco—”

“I run this place,” Francisco said, shaking Grayson’s hand.

“More like his son runs this place!” William said. The other men laughed, sitting back down as Grayson helped Charles onto the seat they had saved for him.

“The famous grandson,” Michael said, shaking his head. “I can’t believe it.”

“Let’s hear that accent, son,” Patrick said. They all turned to him, waiting.

“Um— Hello, everyone, it’s a pleasure to meet you all,” Grayson said politely, and they all cheered. He was a little overwhelmed by so many introductions; it felt like it was the first day of class, and he was trying to remember his students’ names.

“Oh, Charles,” Francisco said, his brown eyes shining. “He looks just like Claire.”

Grayson’s heart stopped at the mention of his mother, pain re-verberating through him. At the same time, he ached to hear more. Charles turned to look at Grayson, his blue eyes wet.

“Doesn’t he?” Charles said, smiling fondly. But just as quick, his smile broke off into a pained expression. Charles wiped his eyes behind his glasses, clearing his throat.

“Great kid you got here, Charles,” Patrick said. Grayson smiled, trying not to fidget. He felt like he was six years old again, being shown off by his parents as their favorite treasure.

“Hey, speaking of kids, meet mine: Mateo … MATEO!” Francisco called. A man a few years older than Grayson came over from the kitchen; he had brown skin and a head full of curly dark hair. He was wearing a black T-shirt with a black apron on top and had a towel over one shoulder.

“Hey,” Grayson said. The man—Mateo—smiled.

“This is Charles’s grandson,” Francisco told Mateo. “Remember Alba was telling us about him?”