“Um.” I glance at my husband, his wiry curls all askew from driving around in the cab with the windows down, helping me scour the streets.

Suddenly I have a glimpse of his face from back when I first met him: before he had those vertical lines creasing his forehead; before he had those flecks of grey through his curly hair.

“Actually, we need to talk, too,” I say. “Right, Oliver?” I glance at Mom and Sam. “We’ll see you in a little bit.”

*

The seats in the lobby are squeaky and not the most comfortable, but we find a spot away from the elevators and sit down. As if by mutual agreement we’ve decided not to go back upstairs, avoiding our bedroom like the scene of a crime. I don’t want to be reminded of last night; of that moment of coming out of the shower, bright-eyed and all made up, and seeing that look of terrible knowing on his face.

I look at Oliver’s eyes across from mine. Nervous but steady. Ready to listen.

I take a deep breath.

“I’m not ready to forgive you yet. Maybe that’s unfair, maybe it’s not. But I don’t want to be stuck in this place, Oliver. The place I’ve been in since yesterday—it’s not a good one. This is…” I sigh. “This is just how things are now, and I need to deal with that.”

Oliver nods. “So…what can I do?”

I look over at him, and those steady eyes. I picture a girl with that same bright stare, and take a breath.

“Tell me about her,” I say.

“Tell me about Hannah.”

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-One

When Mom and Sam come back into the lobby a half hour later we’re still there.

“Are Mom and Dad back yet?” Sam casts a glance out towards the sliding doors. The rest of us look at each other.

“No, Sam,” I say. “They haven’t come in. I guess they’re still talking.”

Sam frowns, glancing at Mom.

“Am I still supposed to be driving back today?”

Mom looks at Oliver and me.

“I don’t think you will be, dear.”

“Then can I go to my room?”

“I’ll bring you up,” Mom says.

Sam looks sheepish.

“I’m just going to my room, I’m not going to run off or anything.”

“Let him go, Mom,” I say, and Sam throws me a sidelong, grateful look. Mom sighs in acquiescence.

I watch Sam go over and call the elevator as Mom sinks into the lounge chair beside Oliver. A skinny little boy in an oversize hoodie. He doesn’t remind me of my sister in this moment, even though he’s reminded me of her so much these past few days. But looking at him now, I don’t see my sister, I see just Sam, his own person; the teenager within him coming into being.