Chapter 5: Sunday Dinner

My mother had made pot roast, and she kept putting more of it on Ezra's plate.

"You're too thin, honey. Boston doesn't feed people."

"No, ma'am," Ezra said. "It doesn't."

Judd's dining room was full of noise. My father was refilling wine. Judd's wife was laughing at something on her phone.

I sat across from Ezra with my knees pressed together and a green dress on that I had changed three times.

I had not looked at him once since I arrived.

I could feel him not looking at me.

"A toast," my father said, and stood. "To Ezra, who finally came home."

Everyone raised a glass.

Under the table, a hand settled on my knee.

I almost knocked over my water.

It was warm and heavy and certain. It slid up my thigh, over the hem of my dress, and stopped halfway.

I stared at my plate.

"Brynn, you're quiet," my mother said. "Are you coming down with something?"

"I'm fine," I said. "Just tired."

Ezra picked up his fork with his other hand.

"She's been on her feet all week," he said smoothly. "I saw her at the desk on Friday."

"You two work together," my father said. "Isn't that nice."

"Very," said Ezra.

His hand slid higher.

My breath caught, and Judd looked up from his plate.

"You okay, Bry?"

"Yes."

"You're all red."

"It's the wine."

The cramp began then.

It had only ever found me on shift. Now it came at my brother's table, with Ezra's hand on me.

It started low, the old familiar squeeze, and I went stiff in my chair. My hand found the edge of the table.

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