“There you are,” she said. “Dinner’s almost ready.”
Her perfume hit me first, then the smell of garlic, tomato sauce, and baked cheese. Lasagna. Her peacekeeping meal. My mother only made lasagna for two reasons: holidays and negotiations. If lasagna appeared on a random Friday, someone was either trying to apologize for something or soften you up before asking for a favor.
Dad stood in the foyer behind her with his hands in his pockets. Trevor had never been a particularly warm man, but there were gradations to his reserve, and that night he seemed almost sharpened by it.
“Good to see you, Ronnie,” he said, though his voice suggested he was thinking about something else entirely.
Sabrina was in the living room, curled into the corner of the couch with one leg folded beneath her, phone in hand, not looking up until she heard my heels on the hardwood. She gave me a brief glance and a smile that didn’t reach her eyes.
