“Dylan called this morning—he’s catching a flight as soon as he can—and Tyler’s doing the same. At least it’s not life-threatening anymore, but it’d be good to have the extra support for Mom.”

“And you.”

“All of us, I guess.” I give her a half smile. “Thanks for the apple pie this morning. It meant a lot to my mom and me.”

“Like I said, it was nothing. Gave me an excuse to eat pie for breakfast to make sure I didn’t ruin it.” She rolls her eyes at herself. “Anyway, are you here permanently now, or are you still between here and Chicago? I can always be available when Martin’s released if Tyler or Dylan can’t stay long.”

“You have your own life, D—Lilah. I don’t want to put this on you.”

“You’re not putting anything on me. I wouldn’t make the offer, otherwise. Just … if there’s anything I can do, I will.”

“I appreciate that, and I know my mom does, too.” I give her what I hope is a grateful smile. “I’m going to the house and then I’m stopping to pick up lunch.”

“Jeannie’s not coming with you?”

“She doesn’t want to leave Dad. I could grab something for you, too.”

“I brought a lunch. I’m good.” She turns to walk away.

“Not even a Cosmo Special? Extra pickles on the side? Coleslaw?” It was her favorite back when we were in high school.

She narrows her eyes. “I ate pie for breakfast. I should probably stick to salad for lunch.”

I give her a lingering once-over. The scrubs hide her curves, but she hasn’t changed that much since high school, at least not on the outside. “Why?”

“Can’t be ruining my girlish figure, especially now that I’m pretty much divorced.” She cringes at the bitter tint to her words. “Forget I said that. It makes me sound petty and vain.”

My brain gets stuck on one word in particular. “Divorced?”

She gives me a look I’m all too familiar with. It’s her get-off-it face. “Come on, Ethan—Jeannie must’ve told you by now.”

I give my head a slow shake. “This is the first I’m hearing about it. When did this happen?”

“We’ve been separated for a while. I got the final divorce papers yesterday morning.”

“Yesterday? And I thought my day was shit.”

“They weren’t unexpected.”

“Still. I’m sorry.” I note for the first time that she’s not wearing a wedding band. “He better not have cheated on you.”

She barks out an incredulous laugh. “Fidelity wasn’t the problem. We just want very different things out of life, so it was better that we go our separate ways.” She sighs and looks at the sky. “Anyway, I have rounds, so I should go.”

Obviously there’s more to the story, but she has no reason to share it with me. I wonder why my mom never told me about the separation. Maybe because I would’ve been tempted to reach out to her. Maybe because knowing this makes me wonder if being traded to Minnesota is some kind of omen. The only problem is I’m pretty sure I’m on the short list of people DJ’s not too fond of, so I don’t know if it’s good or bad.

I can work on fixing that, though. Starting with lunch. “Why don’t I bring you back a panini?”

“I have a lunch. It’s fine.”

“So save it for tomorrow. How can you say no to Cosmo’s?”

She sighs but relents. “No raw onions, please.”

“So we can make out later?” I raise a hand in immediate apology. “Sorry. That was inappropriate. I didn’t mean—It just came out. I wasn’t thinking.”

She raises a brow and huffs a little laugh. “On second thought, lots of raw onions.” She turns and walks away, but I can see her reflection in the glass door as she pushes through it, and she’s smiling.

I don’t want to get ahead of myself, or let the superstitions rule me, but all of this—the good and the bad—seems like fate is throwing us back together again.

chapter four

PROGRESS

Ethan

I’m sorry I can’t stay longer.” Tyler sits beside me on the porch swing with a beer in his hand. He has to go back to Buttfuck Nowhere, Alaska, at balls o’clock tomorrow morning. He should probably be sleeping, but instead we’re sitting outside, drinking beers and shooting the shit, since we haven’t had much time for that over the past week. Or over the past few years, really, since both of us travel a lot for our jobs. I’ve missed him.

“Don’t be. I’m here and I’m not going anywhere. Besides, Dad hates all the coddling, and it’s just a matter of waiting. There’s nothing we can do to speed up his recovery.”

Dylan returned to Seattle yesterday, after we got Dad settled at home. He stayed long enough to help us convert the main-floor office—which had been a storage space for all of my dad’s old files—and move the living room furniture around so it’s accessible for a crotchety man stuck in a wheelchair and resistant to using a walker.

At a week post-stroke, some of my dad’s speech has returned, but it’s slow and slurred, like he’s drunk, and his mouth is frozen as if he’s been to the dentist.