There’s something final about his words that make me a little drunk with power. It’s like I’m possessed when I say, “Just like old times.”

Ryan’s eyes sear into mine. Apparently, my sass wasn’t appreciated.

Too bad.

I flash a quick smile and step around him to find Jason and Cristina.

“All right, so I’m on my way to Queens right now to have dinner with my mom and Jen, but I’ll be back in the city by eight. Ryan,” I say, turning to him, “you can head over around then. Cristina will give you my address and phone number.”

“Terrific,” he says unenthusiastically.

I give him a merry wave and head for the door. I’m halfway there when Cristina jumps in front of me.

“You are my hero,” she says in a hushed tone. “I worship the ground you walk on and you have my unwavering loyalty forever.”

Jason comes to stand beside her. “I think what she means to say is ‘thank you.’ And on a side note, if Ryan steps out of line, just give me a call. I’ll set him straight.”

“Thanks for the offer but I can handle him.” I look over my shoulder, feeling like I’m having a slight out-of-body experience and trying not to smirk. “See you later, Ryan.”

It takes twenty minutes on the Long Island Railroad to get from Penn Station to the Little Neck stop in my childhood neighborhood. From there, I walk six blocks past Laundromats, pizzerias, bagel shops—all the staples of Queens society.

I’m then at the house where I grew up—a brick three-bedroom with a small front yard. I walk up the cement stoop steps and automatically check the mailbox beside the door. There’s a fair amount of mail, the first of the pile being addressed to Tim Sullivan. My airways tighten a bit but I don’t mind. I like that he still gets mail.

As I go through the squeaky screen door and walk into the living room, I imagine my dad sitting in his recliner. My private tradition. He’d look away from the Yankees game on the TV to find me in the doorway. He’d smile and stand up, giving me a hug and telling me I’ve been away for too long, even though I come to dinner every weekend.

I run my hand along the top of the recliner now but the leather is cold. Untouched and unused. I take my hand away before the feeling can linger, moving through to the dining room and into the kitchen to find my mom and my sister, Jen, sitting at the oval oak table.