Total pages in book: 128
Estimated words: 124320 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 622(@200wpm)___ 497(@250wpm)___ 414(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 124320 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 622(@200wpm)___ 497(@250wpm)___ 414(@300wpm)
“Ez.” I pull back far enough to look up at him, scouring his features for the changes twenty years have made. “But you…what are you…how—”
“I moved back to Atlanta a few years ago. I ran into your father and we…” He swallows, releases me to shove one hand into the pocket of his dark slacks. He used to do that when he was unsure. It’s one of the few things remaining of the boy I knew. And those eyes.
“We talked,” he continues. “We kept in touch. He helped me. I hope it’s okay that I’m here.”
He spares a quick glance to my mother at the other end of our row, still elegant and too devastated to really notice those standing in front of her, much less the man standing in front of me.
“It is.” I squeeze his free hand, connecting our gazes. “I’m glad you came.”
Something like relief loosens his tight expression. “Good. I didn’t want to—”
“Dad.”
The voice comes from behind him. I glance around and see a handsome kid with African violet eyes. His skin is a few shades lighter than Ezra’s, his curls less coarse, and there are traces of maybe Asian ancestry in his features, but there’s something of the boy I knew years ago in this one, and my heart contracts.
A son. Ezra has a son.
Of course he does. We’re in our thirties. He’s probably also got a—
“Noah, I asked you to wait with your mom.” Ezra brushes a hand across the boy’s hair.
“I was,” Noah says, his eyes wide and locked on his father’s. “But bà ngoại called. It’s an emergency. Mom says we need to go.”
Ezra and Noah both look beyond the tent and across the cemetery’s carpet of grass. A petite woman paces in a tight circle, a phone pressed to her ear, distress on her face. I see the other parts of Noah in her. A sheath of dark hair hangs to her waist and, even at this distance, she’s obviously a beautiful woman.
Ezra’s wife. Ezra’s son. I haven’t seen this man in more than two decades, but my breath hitches when faced with the life he made apart from me. We were just kids, and of course he made a life without me, just like I made a life without him, but my heart still sinks like an anchor to the ocean floor.
A family. Ezra has a family.
“I saw you on TV,” Noah says, studying me closely.
I frown, for a moment so removed from the reality of life beyond this funeral tent and the cloying scent of flowers that I have no idea what he’s talking about.
“The campaign,” Ezra says, a small smile lifting the corners of his mouth. “You were doing an interview on CNN.”
“Oh.” I nod and manage a facsimile of a smile for Noah’s benefit. “My job has me talk on television sometimes, but I’ll tell you a secret.”
His eyes glint with childish delight.
I bend to his ear and whisper, “I get really nervous, and it’s not as easy as it looks.”
Noah nods, his face sobering. “I’d be nervous, too, but Daddy said you’re the smartest girl he ever met.”
I zip a glance at Ezra, who looks self-conscious for a moment before meeting my eyes. “Still not smarter than me, though,” he deadpans defiantly. “And don’t you forget it.”
I thought there was no way to laugh, not on the day I buried my father, but a chuckle rattles in my throat. “You’re just mad because I beat you at chess.”
“You beat Daddy at chess?” Noah’s eyes stretch to full moons. “Nobody ever beats him.”
“Once,” Ezra interjects with a heatless glare. “She beat me once.”
“Now the excuses start,” I tell Noah.
Ezra smiles, but his gaze flits back to where his wife stands and the brief flash of humor disappears. “We better go, Noah. Let’s see what your mom needs.”
Noah takes off, dashing from the tent and across the grass to his mother. When he reaches her, she pulls him into the crook of her arm and kisses the top of his head. What a beautiful family. I’m happy for him.
Ezra turns his attention back to me. “I just wanted to say how sorry I am. Pay my respects.”
A dozen words idle on my tongue at the prospect of him disappearing again.
Don’t be a stranger. Let me get your number. We should stay in touch.
He looks down at me, and the words lodged in my throat seem to burn in his eyes, too, fueled by regret. And hope. All the things clamoring in my chest play across his expressive features.
“Kimba, we could—”
“It was good seeing you again,” I cut in with soft politeness, dropping the hand I didn’t realize I still held until now. “Thank you for coming.”
He stares at me for long seconds, and despite my best intentions, I stare back. When I was a little girl, no one was closer to me, no one knew me better than Ezra Stern. It was the kind of closeness you cherished as a child—the kind that between two adults could be nothing short of intimate.