I rang the doorbell, then turned and looked at Truman’s car idling in the driveway. I hoped I was doing the right thing, coming back instead of waiting for Sam to come to me.
I bit my lip. I’d promised Sam and Nash some privacy so they could work through their issues. What kind of pathetic loser was I, going back on my word, showing up like this on his—their? our?—doorstep with a perky preschooler in tow?
When the door opened, Sam’s countenance turned quickly from what might mistakenly be called “bitchy resting face”—an expression not typically seen on Sam, at least not in my past with him—to elation.
“Henry! Buddy!”
He saw we were surrounded by our luggage and baskets, and his smile widened. Relief washed through me, and I heard Truman tap his horn in goodbye.
Sam gave his father a d
