Rosalie had been holding the remote at the television long enough for her wrist to start aching.
Press the button.
Easy.
Her thumb rested directly over POWER.
Onscreen, Nolan Devereaux leaned over the open engine compartment of a silver Ferrari with a flashlight between his teeth.
Rosalie lowered the remote into her lap.
“Son of a bitch.”
One of the dogs lifted his head from the other end of the couch.
“Not you.”
His chin dropped back onto the cushion.
Her laptop sat open on the coffee table. The cursor blinked beneath a message from a woman named Teresa who had spent several paragraphs trying to decide whether her boyfriend was technically cheating if he deleted the conversations afterward.
Rosalie had already typed half her answer.
If you have to rewrite the definition of cheating every time he gets caught doing something, I think you already know your answer.
She should send it.
Instead, she looked back at the television.
Nolan pulled the flashlight from his mouth.
“Original block, original heads, matching numbers.”
His voice had gotten deeper.
Of course she noticed that.
Why wouldn’t her brain immediately collect useless information about a man she hadn’t seen in over twenty years?
The owner of the Ferrari asked him something.
Nolan wiped two fingers on a black shop towel.
“Depends who wants it badly enough.”
The corner of his mouth lifted.
There it was.
Same crooked half-smile.
Older face.
Same damn smile.
Rosalie grabbed her coffee, took a sip, and nearly spit it back into the mug.
Cold.
She set it down.
Onscreen, Nolan walked around the car while the camera followed him.
Dark jeans. Charcoal button-down. Sleeves shoved to his forearms. A thin line of grease along the outside of his wrist.
Apparently the producers had resisted putting him in some ridiculous racing jacket covered in sponsor logos.
Good.
Nolan would have hated that.
She knew that immediately.
Then caught herself.
She didn’t know Nolan anymore.
She knew a boy who had slept on Mimi’s couch, stolen fries off her plate, and spent entire afternoons elbow-deep in whatever Baba dragged into the workshop.
The man on television could be completely different.
Her phone buzzed against the cushion.
She ignored it.
It buzzed again.
Rosalie looked.
ARE YOU WATCHING HIM?
Her daughter.
Another message appeared.
Because I know damn well you’re watching him.
Rosalie typed:
I have no idea what you’re talking about.
The reply arrived immediately.
Mom.
Then:
The car show.
Then:
THE MAN YOU HAVE PRETENDED DOESN’T EXIST MY WHOLE LIFE.
Rosalie snorted.
She typed:
There are several men on this program.
Three dots appeared.
How many of them did you grow up with?
Rosalie put the phone facedown.
Insolent child.
The television cut to a mountain road.
The Ferrari swept around a curve with Nolan behind the wheel.
One hand rested loose at the top of the steering wheel.
Rosalie’s stomach did something irritating.
She could remember those hands without trying.
Long fingers stained black with grease.
Holding a wrench.
Flicking water at her from the lake.
Grabbing the hood of her sweatshirt before she leaned too far over the dock.
Tapping against a steering wheel while he tried to identify a song before the chorus.
No.
She reached for the laptop.
Teresa.
Cheating boyfriend.
Much safer.
She reread the woman’s message.
Nothing stuck.
Nolan’s voice came through the speakers again.
“People see an expensive car and think the money is what matters. It isn’t. Somebody built this by hand. Somebody adjusted every piece until it worked exactly the way it was supposed to.”
Rosalie looked at the screen despite herself.
Nolan stood beside the Ferrari now, his palm resting lightly against the roof.
“That’s the part worth keeping.”
Her throat tightened.
“Asshole.”
The dog closest to her opened one eye.
“Still not you.”
Her phone buzzed again.
He looks good.
Rosalie closed her eyes.
Of course.
She typed:
You have five seconds to become my favorite child again.
I’m your only child.
And somehow you’re still losing.
A laughing emoji appeared.
Rosalie smiled despite herself.
Then the smile disappeared when she looked back at Nolan.
The show cut to an old photograph of some Italian factory.
Nolan’s voice continued over it.
She muted the television.
That helped for approximately three seconds.
The house settled around her.
A faint tick came from somewhere near the hallway.
One of Baba’s clocks.
Only three of them still ran.
At one time there had been clocks everywhere.
Mantel clocks.
Wall clocks.
Pocket watches arranged in velvet trays.
A cuckoo clock Mimi threatened to murder every winter because it startled her whenever she forgot it existed.
Baba could sit at his workbench for hours with one of those watches opened beneath a magnifying lens, tiny gears spread across a cloth.
Nolan used to sit beside him.
Watching.
Asking questions.
Touching nothing until Baba handed him a tool.
Rosalie looked toward the dark kitchen window.
The workshop sat behind the house beyond the yard, mostly hidden now.
She had been telling herself for two years that she needed to fix the roof.
Then the gutters.
Then the door.
Then everything else.
Baba would have hated seeing it sag like that.
Her laptop chimed.
Rosalie blinked and pulled herself back toward the coffee table.
Work.
She spent the next half hour answering messages.
A woman who wanted to leave her husband but was afraid of starting over.
A man whose adult son hadn’t spoken to him in eight months.
Someone furious that her sister had borrowed money and then posted vacation pictures from Mexico.
Other people’s problems were easier.
Not easy.
Just easier.
They had edges.
Facts.
Actions.
Choices.
They could be turned around and examined.
Her own past was a drawer full of loose screws.
At some point the television program ended.
She didn’t realize until another show began.
Rosalie shut the screen off.
The room reflected back at her.
Coffee table.
Laptop.
Dog hair she had vacuumed yesterday and apparently grown again overnight.
Her own face floated faintly in the black television screen.
Forty-three.
She leaned closer.
No.
Absolutely not.
There was no reason to inspect herself because she had seen Nolan.
She sat back.
Her phone lit.
A text from her daughter.
So?
Rosalie typed:
So what?
Did it feel weird?
She stared at that.
Weird wasn’t the word.
Weird was finding a shoe in the refrigerator.
Weird was discovering one of the dogs had eaten half a roll of toilet paper.
Seeing Nolan had felt like somebody had opened a door Rosalie had bricked over years ago and left it hanging loose on one hinge.
She typed:
A little.
Her daughter responded with a single skeptical emoji.
Rosalie ignored it.
She closed the laptop and stood.
Her mug went into the sink.
She ran water over the cold coffee until it disappeared.
Her eyes drifted toward the black television again.
Twenty-three years.
She had spent twenty-three years believing Nolan Devereaux had walked out of her life because leaving had been easier than staying.
Eleven minutes on a television screen had been enough to make her wonder if she had ever understood him at all.