Might as well rip off the Band-Aid. “Look, Hallie. I’m sor—” I don’t even get the full apology out.

“It’s fine, Saylor. We’re good.” Hallie loves to sweep anything uncomfortable under the rug. It’s why she’s on a joking basis with our father whereas I can barely exchange a dance’s worth of words with him. Ignorance versus grudges. I’m not sure either approach is healthy, but I know Hallie’s means me pressing things won’t end well. “Do you want breakfast?”

“No, I’ll get something at the airport.”

“Okay. Your flight’s at eleven, right?”

“Yeah.”

Hallie heads back inside, and I flop back down on the hammock to review the past couple of days. So far, my trip home has consisted of: tense conversation with my father, pushing Hallie further away, and a drunken phone call with the guy I’m supposed to be forgetting exists. Throw in too much champagne and excessive flirting, and I’ve got a promising sitcom plot.

Too bad it’s my actual life.

I pick up the beer and seltzer I never opened and walk up the steps and inside. The kitchen is chaos. Matthew Jr. is screaming. Hallie and Matt are rushing around, trying to placate him. Matt’s family is eating breakfast. No one but Jackson acknowledges my arrival on the scene, and I definitely don’t acknowledge his. I stick the drinks back in the fridge and help myself to a banana. I contemplate changing my outfit as I peel the fruit and then decide against it.

“You ready, Saylor?” Hallie asks, handing Matt a bowl of the cereal that seems to have halted the shrieking.

“Yeah,” I respond, heading to the couch to zip up my suitcase. I haul the bag vertical and offer Matt and his family a small wave. “Nice to see you all.”

They each reply with the same pleasantry, and then Hallie and I are off, zipping out of the cul-de-sac her house sits on.

“Shit,” I realize. “Can you stop at the farmer’s market thing?”

“What? Why?” Hallie inquires.

“I never picked up my painting,” I reply. After last night’s drunken dial, it’s probably an idiotic idea, but the thought of never retrieving it bothers me.

Hallie doesn’t reply, but she pulls over at the warehouse when we reach it. The parking lot is empty this time, but every booth I pass by has an occupant. Finally, I reach the one that caught my attention last time.

The same old woman is there, perched on a rickety stool as she sketches something on a notepad. She looks up when I enter the small stall and smiles. A hand spotted with age reaches behind the desk and procures the painting with the additions I requested.

It’s eerie how much it resembles the scene seared into my brain. It’s perfect. Mesmerizing.

“Thank you,” I tell the woman.