Page 141 of Rising Heat

“And work?”

“Busy. I have three contracts right now. One of them’s a six-month retainer.”

“That’s wonderful,” my dad says, and means it.

Mom smiles, small but genuine.

“I’m glad it’s keeping you busy.”

“It is.”

A quiet settles over the call.

“We haven’t heard from you much,” she says gently.

“That’s wonderful,” my dad says and means it.

“I’ve just been slammed.”

She nods, and I know by the look on her face that we’ve officially run out of small talk.

“We had dinner with Brett last week.”

My stomach drops.

“You…had dinner with Brett?”

“He reached out,” my dad says carefully.

“He wanted to check in,” Mom adds. “He asked how you were.”

Of course he did. To them, not me.

“He’s having a hard time,” Dad says softly.

“I’m sure he is.”

Mom watches my face.

“He still doesn’t understand why you left.”

“He understood.”

She waits.

“He just didn’t agree.”

Another silence.

“I think,” Mom says carefully, “we’re all still trying to understand.”

I look down at my hands.

“I know.”

“You spent three years building a life together.”

“Yes.”