I nod, but don’t otherwise move. I stand still because I’m afraid if I get much closer, I’ll grab her and won’t be able to let go. She’s obviously been out based on her attire. I’ve seen her on television dressed like this. Awards shows. Events. Political functions. Polished and pulled together in a way that probably requires a third party. A stylist. That confection of a dress forms a shimmering bell from her waist to her knees. Her shoes look like they cost about as much as monthly tuition at YLA. Her hair, which I’d gotten used to seeing in its natural texture, falls pressed, straight and shiny around her bare shoulders.

“You look pretty,” I say unnecessarily. I’m sure several men, any number of them with eyes in their heads, told her that tonight.

“Thanks.” She carefully makes her way toward me through the string beans.

“Date?” I keep my voice casual, neutral, the exact opposite of how the thought of her on a date with someone else actually makes me feel.

“What?” She frowns and tilts her head.

“Were you on a date?” I ask with excruciating pronunciation.

“Oh, no.” She smiles, slants a knowing glance up at me. “Would you care if I was?”

I don’t reply, but just stare at her, unblinking, letting her feel my answer instead of wasting words.

“I wasn’t on a date. It was a charity event.” She grimaces. “A work thing. I wasn’t expecting you back from New York for a few days.”

I pluck idly at a dead leaf on a tomato vine. “Yeah. I wanted to get back.”

To see you.

I wanted her answer. I know I have a lot of baggage. Having a kid is one thing. Living with his mom for the last decade? Being in the midst of negotiating what is practically a divorce—it’s complicated. I’m not exactly a safe bet. I get it, but I can’t not ask Kimba to take this risk with me. As irrational as it may seem, since we were only thirteen when I left, this feels like our second chance, and I’ll do just about anything to have it. She picks her way down the row of vegetables, her stilettos sinking into the soil. Her ankle turns, bringing a grimace to her lips.

Her pretty, painted lips.

I like your lips the way they always are.

Thirteen-year-old Ezra was on to something. As beautiful as Kimba looks with the artistry of her makeup, I still prefer her lips bare.

I haven’t moved, and she keeps walking toward me. My hands twitch with the compulsion to hold her, so I stuff them in my pockets, an old tell she can still probably easily read. I make a deal with myself. Until she says yes, until she says she’s willing to give us a chance, I won’t touch her.