"It's the good package, the dinner included." He picked up his fork. "I thought we could drive up Thursday evening, make a weekend of it."
"Tom." I set my fork down. The metal clinked against the plate, sounding far too loud in the quiet kitchen. "I'm so sorry. I can't do Friday."
He looked at me. He didn't drop his fork or look shocked. He just waited.
"I completely forgot about the tasting. I should have told you sooner. I'm sorry."
"What's Friday?" he asked. Steady. Just asking for the missing piece of the schedule.
"I ran into them. At the supermarket. Lily Henley—Cassie's daughter. She kind of..." I stopped. I took a breath and started again. "I got roped into dinner."
He was quiet for a moment. "The Henley girl."
"Yeah."
"And the uncle."
It wasn't a question. I held his gaze. "Yes."
He nodded and looked at his plate. He picked up his fork and turned it in his hand, watching the light catch the silver.
"Tom, I'm sorry. I'll pay you back for the?—"
"It's fine," he said. "Don't worry about the money."
"We can rebook for next month."
"Sure." He took a bite. He chewed slowly, methodically. "How's she doing? The little girl."
"Better," I said. "She seems... she’s a tough kid."
"Good." He nodded. "That's good." He paused. "And the uncle?"
I looked at him.
"You knew him," Tom said. "Before." Not an accusation. Just placing it.
"We were together," I said. "A long time ago. Three years."
He nodded slowly. It was the way he processed data in a lab: taking it in, weighing it, refusing to react until the results were clear. "And now he's back."
"He's back because his sister died, Tom. It’s not—" I stopped myself. "It was a long time ago."
"I know," he said. And he did know, I could see it—he wasn't suspicious, wasn't building a case. He was just a man who'd been handed a piece of information and was deciding what to do with it. He looked at his glass. "Does it feel like a long time ago?"
I didn't answer that.
Does it feel like a long time ago?
I didn't know how to answer that.
He looked at me for a moment. Then he set his fork down and leaned back in his chair, and something in his face settled into something quieter than what had been there before.
"You haven't been yourself," he said. "Since Cassie died. Since he came back." He hesitated, then continued. "I noticed."
"Tom—"
"I'm not—" He shook his head. "I'm not saying it to make you feel bad." He looked at his glass. "I like you, Maddie. I really do. You know that." He paused for a beat. "But we both know what this is. What it's been."