He doesn’t say anything, just hangs a hand on the back of his neck.

“Okay, what?” I ask.

He offers me the bottle of bourbon.

“Why do you still have this?” I ask him. “Were you serious about not sharing?”

“I took a direct swig when we were out on the swings,” he says. “I wasn’t thinking. I was distracted.”

“Mm. I remember. Being distracting,” I say. I accept the bottle. “So why are you giving it to me? Because I don’t mind your backwash?”

“No,” he says. “I want it back. You can drink it. Or not drink it. The bottle can be empty. I just want it back.”

I get it. An excuse to see me.

Not smooth at all, but I appreciate the attempt. I try to rein in my grin.

“Okay. When?”

“Whenever,” he says. “Soon would be good.”

“This week?”

He takes my hand in his and gives it a quick squeeze.

“Good night,” he says.

“Night, Ian.”

I’m so preoccupied by the tingle in my hand that I slip twice on the way to the car.

Scarlett won’t look at me. She doesn’t say anything, doesn’t put music on. This continues for about ten minutes until we’re almost home.

That’s when she says, “I have to tell you something.”

I assume it’s Matty related. “You can tell me anything.”

“Mom’s coming up.”

“What?” I’d have preferred a hard slap across the face.

“Yeah. Not this coming weekend, the one after.”

“Uh, again, what?”

“Mom and maybe Guy,” she says. “He might be working.”

“For how long?”

“A week.”

“A week? When were you going to tell me?”

Scarlett has a much less complicated relationship with our mother. They speak on a regular basis. Weekly FaceTime sessions, consistent texting. I speak to our mother only when absolutely necessary. I see her only on holidays, and I avoid being alone with her.

The idea of having to be around her for a week . . .

“Why are you springing this on me?”

“It’s not springing,” she says. “I’m telling you.”

“Are you pissed at me?”

“Believe it or not, this visit isn’t to spite you,” she says. “She visits sometimes. It’s normal.”

“It is to spite me,” I say.

I was having a good night. The timing feels calculated. It’s cruel.

“I was dreading telling you because I knew you’d react like this. We don’t need to argue. It’ll be fine. It’s a few days.”

“Right,” I say, infusing as much venom into the word as possible.

“I’m sorry,” she says, sighing as we pull into the garage. “What do you want me to do? Tell her she can’t come? I’ve been in the middle for years now. I can’t do it anymore, Aurora. Especially not right now.”

“I see how it is. Blame the baby, huh?” I ask, softening a little.

She laughs. “Yeah, I guess so.”

We go inside, kicking our shoes off in the laundry room.

“You want tea?” she asks.

“No, thanks. I’m gonna go to bed,” I say. “Sweet dreams.”