He watched her walk away. The roar of a motorbike was followed by a large, gleaming machine rolling into the driveway. The rider glanced his way, but his visor was lowered so Dylan couldn’t see the man’s eyes. Ava put on the helmet she was handed, climbed on without a backward glance, and then she was gone.

“That went well.” Dylan ran a hand through his hair. But then what had he expected? She was right, sixteen years was too long to catch up, and he should have known better than to ask that.

“Dylan!”

“Hey, Mom.” She’d aged, which again was obvious, but he hadn’t considered it. Worry lines marred her perfectly made-up face, and there was more gray in her hair, but it was still styled the same. She’d shrunk too, which was weird. Mary Howard had always seemed a big woman. Guilt, thick and heavy, sat on his shoulders as he allowed his mother to lead him inside the house that he’d grown up in, but not once had it felt like a real home.

A woman sat at the table, and he saw it was the middle Howard sibling.

“Charlie?”

She turned, and he was faced with yet another sister he didn’t recognize. There were similarities to Ava’s but her hair was lighter and streaked with multiple colors, which Dylan guessed wasn’t natural. Perfectly made up, she had the only brown eyes of the Howard siblings, and they carried the same cool, emotionless look he and Ava wore. It seemed there was one thing the Howard siblings had in common.

“Charlotte,” she said, getting to her feet. She was dressed in black pants, a caramel sweater, and heeled boots. He searched for the girl he’d chased around this very house and used for tackling practice in their youth, but found no resemblance.

He accepted the peck on his check from her cool lips, then she returned to her seat and picked up her cell phone.

“Sit, Dylan, the oatmeal is made.”

“I already ate, but thanks, Mom.”

“Ava made it, it’s a ritual. Usually she and Zander do it together, but he had to work late.”

“Zander?” Dylan pulled out a chair across from his sister and sat. It was like he was in some weird parallel universe. As if they’d sat at this very table every day for the last sixteen years, with their mother making oatmeal and the whole family discussing stuff. When actually what they’d done was the exact opposite. He couldn’t get his head around the fact he was here.

The kitchen was the same, although maybe that lavender paint was different. He saw there was still no clutter on the benches, everything away in its place. Tidiness was a Mary Howard mantra.