"Sophie." She fell in step beside him. "I know who you are. He talks about you." Calvin glanced at her.
"He does?" You fixed his gutter last spring. You bring Maya over on Halloween. You started his mower when the pull cord broke. She kept her eyes forward.
"He tells me things." "I didn't know he mentioned me." "He talks about you more than he talks about himself." They walked out through the sliding doors into the Ohio night. The air was cold, sharp, with the smell of rain that hadn't come yet.
Calvin unlocked the truck. Sophie climbed in without being asked. He'd expected the drive to be quiet. Robert Hayes wasn't a talker. Calvin had figured the daughter probably wasn't either.
He planned to make it easy. Keep the radio on low. Let her stare out the window. Get her home. He had not anticipated her turning to him at the first red light and saying he almost didn't call you.
Calvin looked over. "What?" "My dad." Sophie had her hands folded in her lap, fingers interlocked tight. He sat on that phone for 2 hours before he called you.
He told me when he texted to confirm the flight. Had to ask the neighbor. Took me a while to dial. She said it in a voice that wasn't quite mocking. Wasn't quite sad.
"That's him. To the letter." He's private. Calvin said he's stubborn. She said it without heat, but without apology either.
He would have driven himself. Would have risked it. Except I told him if anything happened to him on the way to get me, I would never forgive myself. So he finally picked up the phone. Calvin pulled through the intersection.
The highway on-ramp stretched ahead of them. You talk to him tonight? We text. We've always texted more than we talk. She paused.
It's easier. You can take longer to answer. Calvin didn't say anything to that. He understood it too well. Texting gave you time to think.
Time to sound like the version of yourself that had everything under control. "How long's it been?" He asked. "Since you've been home?" She was quiet for a moment.