Page 54

EZRA

T he house is the same as the last time I saw it in the months before I was arrested.

Maybe the fence is a little more weathered, and there’s new asphalt in the driveway.

But the pink gables still pull my gaze to the top floor window where my parents’ room is, and the same swing still sits on the wraparound porch.

The roses along the north fence are in full bloom.

A weed-whacker leans against the porch rail.

I squeeze the steering wheel tightly.

I can’t do this.

By contrast, filling out the paperwork agreeing to a decade or two of debt payments was easy.

Lysander’s hand lands on my thigh. “We can come back.”

“No.” They want to see me — they said so. Mom cried on the phone.

Nausea churns in my gut. I unbuckle my seatbelt and open the door before I can do the cowardly thing and turn around and go home. I shut them out for years because I was so scared they would reject me for all the ways I failed them. I can be better than that now.

Lysander hangs slightly behind me as we walk up the stairs to the porch. I ring the doorbell. The churning in my stomach comes to a peak and I fight back the urge to run. Or throw up.

The door opens. My dad’s familiar, warm face greets me first before his arms sweep me up and I can’t see, smothered in his coat.

“Ezra,” he chokes, squeezing me hard. “Son.”

“Is that —”

My mom stops short and her quick sob breaks my heart again.

My dad lets go of me and she reels me in, her familiar smell filling my lungs.

I have to bend down to hug her, a fact I’ve never forgotten, which hits me like a blow to the chest. She hugs me for a long time, until I’m fighting back my own tears, and then she lets me go.

“Come inside. Who’s your friend?” she asks, dashing at her eyes. She holds out her hand. “I’m Miriam Pine.”

“Lysander,” he says, taking her hand unflinchingly, which says something about how far he’s come. “It’s lovely to meet you, ma’am.”

“Lysander’s my boyfriend.” Partner. Forever person. I try to convey the rest silently.

My mom beams as Lysander bends over her hand in a full-out bow. “Gosh, you’re a charmer. Lysander is a gorgeous name. Is that Shakespeare?”

“My parents loved Shakespeare,” Lysander says with a smile as my mom takes his arm and leads him toward the kitchen.

My dad holds me back, a tiny furrow on his forehead. “He’s good for you, kiddo?”

I watch Lysander squeeze my mom’s hand and start telling her about Elsabeth’s namesake even as he looks around with wide eyes at the floral wallpaper and the shelves full of knick-knacks.

I know he’s cataloging every piece of decor for his own nefarious goal of decorating my — our — apartment, since I still refuse to let him pay for a nicer place.

I have a bit of spare cash these days, enough that I could probably afford to move, but I’m enjoying having savings instead.

Anyway, the place isn’t so bad now that Lysander is in it.

“Yeah, dad. He’s really good for me.” The truth is warm and light on my tongue.

My dad nods approvingly. “Good.”