He lifted the heavy leather suitcase, placing it next to his hanging garment bag. The heat off the asphalt was thick, smelling of hot rubber and dry gasoline from the lawnmower next door.
“You have the spare house keys?” I asked, standing near the driver’s side door.
Nathan adjusted his sunglasses, the dark lenses hiding his eyes completely. “In the glove box.”
“I bought those cold roast beef sandwiches you like,” I said. “They are in the insulated bag on the back seat.”
“Are they on paper plates?” Nathan asked, his voice flat.
“Yes, on paper plates,” I said.
“Thanks,” he said, his hand hovering over the trunk lid before he slammed it shut.
The sound of the latch was loud in the quiet suburban street. On the next porch over, Mrs. Gable was watering her petunias, her hose spraying a fine mist into the hot air.
“Tell your parents I said hello,” I said, though the words felt heavy in my mouth.
“I will,” Nathan said. He did not look at me as he reached out and patted my shoulder, then gave my cheek a brief, dry kiss.
