I smiled the smile I'd perfected for press junkets and sponsor meetings, the one that made people feel special without giving them anything real. "It's nice to meet you, Sarah. Red's told me a lot about you."
He hadn't. I didn't know anything about her except that she had posters of me. But the line worked the way it always worked, making her light up like I'd given her a gift.
"Can I get you something to drink?" she asked, already backing toward the kitchen. "Water? Coffee?"
"Water's fine. Thank you."
She disappeared. Derek rubbed a hand over his face.
"She's been like this since I told her you were coming," he said. "I had to hide her phone so she wouldn't post about it."
"I'm used to it." The words came out flatter than I meant them to. Derek's eyes sharpened. I'd let something slip, the exhaustion maybe, or the hollowness underneath the charm.
Red pushed off the wall. "Where are the kids?"
"Owen's in the backyard. Lily's upstairs reading." Derek glanced between us. "Red, you're in the guest room. Joel, I can set you up on the couch if that works. It pulls out."
"The couch is—" I started.
"Joel can have the guest room," Red said. "He just drove nine hours. I'll take the couch."
His eyes met mine, steady, daring me to argue.
"You sure?" Derek asked. "You're the one with the busted hand."
"I'm sure."
Derek shrugged. "Okay. Joel, the guest room's down the hall, second door on the left. Red, I'll grab you some blankets."
Red headed toward the living room without looking at me.
The guest room was small and clean, with a patchwork quilt on the bed and family photos on the walls. More pictures of Red: in a Lobos jersey at seventeen or eighteen, mid-laugh; standing next to Derek at someone's wedding, both in ill-fitting suits; holding a newborn, his face soft with wonder.
I set my bag down and stood there, surrounded by evidence of a life I'd never had.
Someone knocked. I expected Red, come to fight with me about the couch or the hospital or any of the other landmines we'd laid between us.
It was the boy, Owen. He stood in the doorway with a plastic hockey stick in his hand and zero sense of boundaries.
"Mom says you're a figure skater," he said.
"That's right."
"That's the spinning thing."
"That's the spinning thing."
He considered this, his face scrunched in thought. "Uncle Red plays real hockey."
"He's pretty good at it."
"He's the best." Owen said this with absolute certainty, the way only a child could. "He's going to teach me when I'm bigger. The fast kind, not the spinning kind."
"The fast kind is good too."
Owen held up the plastic stick. "Want to play? Dad's too tired and Uncle Red's hand is broken."
I should have said no. I should have stayed in the guest room and given Red space and figured out how to apologize for whatever I'd done wrong. But Owen was already turning away, assuming I'd follow, and something in me wanted to see what it was like to play in a backyard.