As personal as it felt to Sebastian, and as much as he wished he could protect it, his story was part of the public domain. Anyone who read the book or watched the movie about the Miracle Five could learn much more about him than he was comfortable with their knowing.

“I know that your mom died,” she said. “But I don’t know how.”

“A terminal illness she’d had since childhood.”

“I’m sorry. How old were you at the time?”

“Eight.” He could lose himself in Leah. He wanted to lose himself in her. “I went into the foster care system.”

“How many years after your mom died did you meet Ben?”

“Five.”

“And the Colemans became your family.”

“Yes.” That was the simplest way to communicate a complex answer. As a rule, Sebastian didn’t form attachments. One, he didn’t like to rely on people. Two, he didn’t want the fear and potential loss that came with loving people.

The Colemans were the only people he’d let in over the past twenty-four years. For them, his feelings ran deep, and his loyalty was unshakable. They were the closest thing to a family he had, but calling them his family made him feel like he was cheating his mom, his actual family member, of her due. Also, as much as he cared about the Colemans, he was always aware that he didn’t fully belong with them.

He was the one Caucasian guy in a big African-American family. The one member who’d entered their group as a teenager, instead of being raised in their ranks. As successful as he’d become, he’d always be their charity case.

“I owe them a lot,” he said.

Thoughtfully, she bit into a carrot.

He’d never forget the unselfish things the Colemans had done for him. Too many times to count, he’d entered Ben’s room to find the family’s army cot already made up for him. Camo sleeping bag. Down pillow covered in a clean white pillowcase.

They’d taken him with them in their van on trips. CeCe would bring a small cooler and pass back Capri-Suns and bags of pretzels during the long hours of driving.

They’d held parties for him when he’d graduated from high school, college, and med school. Each time, they’d stretched the same black-and-gold Congratulations! banner above a dining room table covered with his favorite dishes.

“How often do you come back to Misty River to see the Colemans?”

“As often as possible. I have an apartment in Atlanta, and I spend the nights there during the week, but my house is here. In fact, I was driving from the airport to my house the day of the car crash.”

“Airport?”

“The regional one, outside Clayton.”

“You have your pilot’s license?”

“I do. I like to fly back and forth when I can.”