Page 22

Me: I wasn’t planning to.

Noelle: Good.

Another message.

Noelle: You’re learning.

My mouth twitches.

I put my phone away. Inside my jacket, against my chest, where I can feel it every time it buzzes.

I make it through the rest of the meeting without checking it again. Mostly.

An hour later, I’m back in my hotel room when I open Dottie’s picture again.

It’s the same hotel I always stay in when I’m in Chicago. The same kind of room. King bed, crisp white duvet, a view of the river and a dozen other glass towers lit up against a sky the color of wet concrete. Everything smells faintly of lemon and industrial carpet. Room service left a club sandwich on the desk an hour ago. I haven’t touched it.

I toss my jacket over the chair, loosen my tie, and sit on the end of the bed with my elbows on my knees.

It’s quiet. Hotel quiet. The kind where you can hear the hum of the minibar and the elevator chiming down the hall, and nothing else.

At home, right now, Shiloh would be in the bath, arguing about whether his hair really needs to get wet.

I’ve missed nine bath times. I know because I’ve counted.

The reindeer still don’t look like reindeer. The candy cane magnet is still ridiculous. But that’s not what I’m looking at.

In the lower corner of the photograph, Noelle is crouched beside Shiloh. She’s wearing an oversized cream sweater with the sleeves pushed up to her elbows, and her hair is twisted up in a clip that’s losing the battle. Half of it has escaped and is falling down her neck. There’s a streak of brown paint on her forearm.

She’s smiling at him.

Not the camera.

Him.

Shiloh is holding up another piece of paper, and she’s looking at him like whatever he’s drawn is absolutely brilliant.

Like he’s the most important thing in the room.

And Shiloh, my careful, quiet son who doesn’t trust easily, who still checks the front window every time a car comes up the drive, leans into her. Not much. Just his shoulder against her arm. As if he’s known her more than the handfull of days she’s been there.

Something tightens in my throat.

I zoom in.

Not on the refrigerator.

On her.

The freckles I noticed from her profile photo are still there. Darker in the warm kitchen light. Her cheeks are pink, and she looks as if she’s moments away from laughing.

I’ve only heard her voice once. Three minutes on the phone. I’ve thought about it more than three minutes’ worth.

There’s something different about the kitchen. I can’t put my finger on it at first. Then I realize what it is. It looks lived in.

My house has always been lived in. Dottie has been there for years. Shiloh’s toys have taken over half the rooms since he learned to walk.

But this is different. If I pan out to see the entire picture, there are several things I notice. There are a couple of crayons on the counter. A plastic cup decorated with Shiloh in stickers sits beside the fridge. Next to that cup is a mug I don’t recognize, yellow, with a chip in the rim. A cardigan slung over the back of one of the stools, like whoever owns it just took it off and plans to come right back.