Page 107

“Mom,” he says, wrapping me up in one of his wonderful, tight hugs.

I close my eyes and hold him.

He’s always been such a sweet boy. Steady. Thoughtful. Too mature, really, because Maverick never gave him much room to be anything else.

“You look great,” Finn says, pulling back to study me. “Did you do something with your hair?”

“Just a little touch-up. Come on inside, sweetheart.”

As soon as we walk through the door, Fifi loses her mind. Barking, wiggling, spinning in circles.

Finn stops in his tracks.

“What,” he says slowly, “…is that?”

“That is Fifi. She’s a dog.”

“Are you sure?” He eyes her with deep suspicion. “She looks like a Halloween decoration.”

“Be nice. She can hear you.” I pause. “Sort of.”

I head into the kitchen to make coffee while Finn keeps a respectful distance as Fifi sniffs enthusiastically at his shoes. Eventually, she wears herself out and settles into her bed with a huff, as though the visit has been entirely too much for her.

Finn and I sit on the couch with our mugs. We talk about his work, my classes, and the divorce. I tell him the lawyer is doing just fine, because there’s no point worrying him. Vince may still manage to be competent. Accidentally, perhaps, but stranger things have happened.

Eventually, Finn looks down into his coffee.

“I told Dad about the baby.”

My hand tightens around my mug. “What did he say?”

“Nothing.” Finn shrugs, but there is tension under it. “You know what he’s like. He locked himself in his office for the rest of the night.”

I look down at my coffee, feeling that old, familiar pang of sadness.

I do feel bad for Maverick sometimes. He’s not a bad man. He can be kind when he wants to be. Charming. Generous. Even tender, once upon a time. He just chooses not to be those things.

I decide it’s time to change the subject.

“So,” I say, keeping my tone light, “with all this talk about babies…are you seeing anyone?”

Finn’s face changes instantly. “Me? No. Too busy with work.”

Then studies me over the rim of his mug. His eyes narrow in that familiar way they do when he senses something is off.

“You seem different.”

I keep my expression mild. “Do I?”

“Yeah.” His gaze moves over my face. “Something’s changed.”

That’s the thing about my son—nothing gets past him.

I smile and shake my head. “I’m just starting to feel like myself again. That’s all.”

He doesn’t look entirely convinced, but after a moment he lets it drop. We talk for nearly two hours after that, the conversation easy and meandering. By the time he leaves, night has fallen outside. I close the door behind him with a contented sigh and linger by the window for a moment, watching his taillights fade down the quiet street.

When I turn around, I nearly jump out of my skin.