Sometimes I pictured the eighteen-year-old boy who had disappeared from my house.
But never like this.
I rushed forward with my arms open.
“My baby—”
“Stop.”
I froze.
His voice was not angry.
It was exhausted.
He lifted one hand, carefully keeping distance between us.
“I want Grant to tell you the truth.”
My happiness vanished.
“What?”
Eli looked past me into the house.
“Where is he?”
“He went for his walk.”
“I’ll wait.”
Without asking, Eli stepped inside.
I closed the door behind him.
I could not stop staring.
He looked different from the teenager I remembered.
As a boy, Eli had loved colorful clothes, soft sweaters, dramatic shirts, and occasionally makeup.
Grant had hated all of it.
Now Eli wore simple dark clothes.
No makeup.
Nothing that immediately reminded me of the boy who had left.
As though he could hear my thoughts, Eli looked at me.
