“Client call ran long.”
“Went out with the team.”
“Stopped by Dan’s to watch the second half.”
“Needed to clear my head.”
He came home with that loose smile people wear when they have already had the fun part of the day without you.
When I asked if he was unhappy, he frowned like I had insulted him.
“Why are you making problems?”
I learned to ask less.
Then Tessa moved in next door.
Tessa Riley arrived in the yellow house to our right on a bright April Saturday with a moving truck, two teenage nephews carrying boxes, and a laugh that crossed property lines before she did. She was thirty-one, recently divorced, a freelance interior stylist according to the introduction she gave everyone, though I never understood exactly what that meant. She wore linen pants, gold jewelry, and that powdery perfume. She had the kind of friendliness that made people feel selected. When she spoke to you, she tilted her head as if you were already close.
The first week, she knocked on our door with brownies.
“Hi, neighbors,” she sang, holding up the plate. “I’m Tessa, and I bribe people with sugar because I have no shame.”
Caleb laughed immediately.