Adrian does not wait for me. He is already at the top of the stairs by the time I close the car door, one hand lifted toward the bell, unhurried, as if he has been here before. I take the steps fast and reach him just as the lock turns.
The door opens.
My mother stands in the frame with a dish towel over her shoulder and the smell of onions and garlic behind her. Her hair is pulled back in a loose clip, wisps escaping around her face. She looks at me. Then she looks at Adrian. Her eyes go wide and stay there. She takes him in from the coat to the jaw to the shoes without meaning to.
"Lena," she says. "You brought a guest."
"Good evening, Mrs. Hale," Adrian says. He holds her gaze just long enough to be respectful, then looks away. Giving her room.
She blinks. He knows her name. She st
