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"The center?" I ask.
Her gaze flicks to mine. "You noticed."
"It's hard not to."
"His presence sort of demands it, doesn’t it?"
I glance back over, seeing him with his brothers.
Even when he isn't speaking, the room seems to orient around him. Not because he's trying to command it. Because everyone else, in some way, seems to take their cues from where he is.
Before I can say that out loud, headlights sweep the front windows.
Not one of the family cars. This one is white and boxy.
I turn instinctively toward the drive, and my whole body feels the shock and surprise when I read the wording on the side of it.
Brookhaven.
For one second, I can't think. I just stare.
"Everett," I say quietly, though he’s not close enough to hear me.
He's already looking toward the door and then glances back over at me.
He already knew they were coming. I can see it in the lack of surprise. In the way he’s searching my face for a reaction.
I start heading towards the door and he meets me as I stare out the large windows of the house.
"You knew," I say.
He meets my eyes. "I spoke with his physical therapist this week."
"What?"
"I thought it might help," he says. "A dry run for tomorrow."
My throat tightens so fast I can barely swallow. "For the optics?"
"No." His gaze stays on mine. "I did it for you."
My chest tightens so hard I can't get a full breath.
He turns and walks toward the front door, and I follow, slowly behind him, almost as if moving too quickly might scare the mirage away before I can get to it.
The van door opens and one of the Brookhaven therapists steps out first, smiling in that careful, encouraging way medical professionals do when they know they're walking into a moment that matters.
Then my father appears.
He's steadier than the last time I saw him, but still slower than he used to be. His right side drags a little. His grip on the door frame is tighter than it needs to be. But he's here. He's standing.
"Dad."
His face lights when he sees me.
"Sweetheart."
The word nearly undoes me on the spot.
