Inside, a man with short sandy-brown hair that sticks up in the back sits at our kitchen counter, bent over what I assume is his phone. Richard. Behind him, my mom amicably smiles at our breakfast table and nods while clutching a paper coffee cup. It’s out of character. She hates overpriced coffee or basically anything not made in her own coffee pot.

The mayor must be in there.

Playing nice with Cullen’s dad is the absolute last thing I’m in the mood for right now.

I hop down from the railing and smooth out my shirt. If Cullen’s inside, I’m running the other way. Never seeing him again would be too soon.

When I open the door, my eyes are drawn to Richard first. He’s fixated on the TV in our living room. I assume it’s about Dopney—his condition, his tie to Chicago, but instead the news anchor is talking about some city event. “. . . expecting an announcement later today regarding the fate of the annual Save the Parks Gala, originally scheduled for next week . . .” An older woman’s face flashes on the screen with her name, Sydney Cornell, highlighted in white beneath it.

Richard sets his cell on the kitchen counter and stands when he sees me, his shoulders hunched like he’s hiding his height. He smiles, a real one, his face bending in accompaniment.

The mayor and my mother stand in unison.

“I was just getting ready to text you,” my mother says. “The mayor stopped by to check on you.”

She shoots me a warning look behind the mayor’s back, indicating best behavior, manners, don’t pull your I’m-too-tired routine this evening. It’s a look I know well.

The mayor steps forward. “Amelia.” He puts out his hand. “Allow me to formally introduce myself. Jim Henking.”

The mayor’s undeniable presence makes my kitchen and living room feel small and inadequate. His dark hair is combed back to the left, highlighted with the right amount of gray, as if a hairstylist colored it that way. Crow’s-feet around his eyes deepen when he smiles, somehow making him look charming, not older. His white teeth gleam. He’s like a walking billboard for whitening toothpaste.

When we shake, my hand feels babyish in his grip.

He pulls out a chair from our table. “Please, join us.”

I throw my bag on the floor and sit, unsure how I feel that he’s offering me a seat at my kitchen table.

“Would you like something to drink?” He holds out a hand to Richard, who brings him a cardboard cup holder filled with drinks. “Let’s see. What do we have?”

He lifts each one to read the label.