“I just want a normal family dinner, Noah.”
“We never had one,” Noah said.
I picked up the bouquet and my car keys from the counter.
“I will call you after,” I said.
Noah did not look back as I let myself out of the apartment.
The drive to Maple Street took fifteen minutes through the grey Indiana afternoon. The oak trees had dropped most of their leaves, leaving the brick ranch house looking exposed and small under the heavy clouds.
I pulled into the driveway and let the Buick idle for a minute. The rusted bumper vibrated against the exhaust pipe, making a dull metallic rattle that always made me feel conspicuous in this neighborhood.
Clara’s house was immaculate. The white shutters were perfectly aligned, and the lawn had been raked into neat piles near the curb.
I looked at the passenger seat where the lilies lay wrapped in butcher paper. There was a blue envelope tucked into the stems, addressed to Clara in my own neat handwriting.
I wondered if she would even open it before she complained about the cost of the flowers. Forty-two dollars was a lot of money for a graphic designer who was still living on freelance projects and coffee.
