A door clicked quietly open behind him, and he turned to meet her.

Andra’s hair drifted in a wild mass of black, the humidity lifting its normal waves into the bounce and sway of fat curls that begged to hide his fingers. Her denim-clad legs went on for miles, and her cowboy boots made him ache for the open fields of Montana.

She took a small step forward, hugging her elbows. She was moving differently. It didn’t feel like he’d been gone long enough for so much to have changed.

“I didn’t mean to cause trouble,” she said. “I should have called and asked if I could visit.”

“’Course not.” He pulled a chair out from the table for her. “You’re always welcome—you know that. I just would have cleaned up a little if I knew you were coming. You hungry?”

She sat down. “Thirsty, mostly.”

“Right, of course. New Orleans in August is nasty.” He hunted through the cupboard until he came up with a cup that wasn’t plastic. A quick towel swipe had it shining even more, and he took the time to get a few ice cubes from the freezer. “You want sweet tea or water?”

She smiled. “Better do water. I’m half-diabetic already from all the sweet tea I drank at lunch.”

“Oh, right. I forget you don’t have the stomach for sweet tea.” As he filled the glass, he watched her out of the corner of his eye, trying to pinpoint what had changed about the way she moved. She still crossed her arms over her chest, but it almost looked . . . softer? Comforting instead of defensive, maybe.

A strange sound from outside caught his attention. He put the glass in front of her before he crossed the room and peered out the window. His hands curled into fists when he saw the news van setting up a camera tripod in front of the Graviers’ empty lot next door.

“What’s wrong?” Andra’s chair scraped back, and she came up beside him. “Are those reporters? What’s going on?”

“Hurricane hit Florida this week. Anytime there’s a big one or an anniversary of Katrina, they come crawling all over the place. The Lower Ninth was right at one of the levee breaks where the water flooded in, and a lot of folks around here couldn’t afford to rebuild. If they want to get dramatic shots to remind everybody how bad it was, they come here.” He looked away, because he didn’t want to see her pity. It felt even itchier than that of strangers. “Give me one second, okay?”

He kicked into a pair of sandals and went outside.

“Excuse me,” he called, crossing his grass to a cameraman setting up the tripod. “You can’t film here. This is private property.”

“I’m sorry,” the cameraman said, glancing over his shoulder. “I, ah . . .”