Her words hang in the air between us. We need to talk. My chest feels tight, like all the oxygen in the hallway just got pulled away.
“What about?” I ask, even though I know.
Her gaze flicks toward the door at my side. “Not here.”
She turns and walks toward the kitchen without waiting to see if I follow. I do, because what else can I do?
We sit at the table, the same table where she taught me how to fold napkins when I was ten, the same one where she signed the check for my first hockey gear. Now it feels like enemy territory.
“I knew Connor,” she says simply. “Before you were born. His family lived here for a while. His dad and I… we were friends.”
Friends. The word feels too small for the way she avoids my eyes.
“How good of friends?” My voice is sharper than I mean it to be.
She
