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He steps out first, coming around to open my door. The evening air hits my face, carrying the scent of freshly cut grass and Thomas’s famous pot roast.
One foot in front of the other, I tell myself. Brandon’s presence at my back feels like armor as we approach the front door.
Before I can reach for the doorbell, the door swings open, Thomas stands there, his weathered face breaking into a gentle smile.
“Ms. Naomi.” His eyes flick to Brandon, then back to me. “Your father’s in his study.”
Of course, he is. Some things never change.
Anne stands in the hallway, her eyes wide, uncertain. “You came.”
“Hey, sis.” My voice turns high-pitched. “What are you doing here?”
She pulls me into a hug that’s too tight, too desperate. I stand there, arms at my sides, breathing in her familiar perfume. “I heard you were coming. First time since… I wanted to check on you both.”
“Naomi.” Landon’s deep voice carries from behind Anne. “Good to see you both.”
“It’s cold. Come in.” She ushers us inside. “Mykel’s running late. As usual.”
Every surface is pristine like that night never happened. Like there wasn’t blood?—
Brandon leans close, his breath warm against my ear. “Remember the deal?”
I nod. If I have to purge, I’ll tell Brandon.
“Good girl.” His lips graze my temple, fleeting but warm. “Let’s get this shit show started.”
My father emerges, pausing at the sight of us, his expression unreadable. “Naomi. Brandon.”
Brandon’s hand finds the small of my back. “Mr. Smith.”
“I trust you’re both well.” Dad straightens his tie. “Thomas has prepared dinner.”
The dining room table stretches before us, each place setting perfect, each crystal glass catching the light. Ten chairs. One empty now, where she used to sit.
“Water with lemon, Ms.?” Thomas appears at my elbow.
I nod, throat tight. The crystal feels too delicate in my hand as if shattering if I grip it too hard.
“So,” Anne breaks the silence, “Brandon, I heard you’re looking at restaurant locations?”
His fingers drum against his thigh. “Yes, actually. Found a promising spot downtown.”
“Another restaurant?” Dad’s eyebrows lift. “I thought that venture had… concluded.”
The temperature in the room drops ten degrees.
Brandon’s jaw tightens, but his voice stays steady. “Different location, different concept. Sometimes, you have to fail before you succeed.”
“Indeed.” Dad takes a careful sip of wine. “Though some might argue once is enough.”
“Dad—” I start.
“It’s fine.” Brandon’s smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “I appreciate the concern, Mr. Smith. But I’ve learned from my mistakes.”
Under the table, my hand finds Brandon’s knee, squeezing. He covers my hand with his, warm and solid.
The front door slams, and Mykel’s voice carries through the house. “Sorry, I’m late! Traffic was a bitch—oh, shit, sorry Thomas.”