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“He played basketball, Drew. For a living.”

“Yeah, I know what he did for a living. I had his poster on my wall.” He sat back and stared at her. “My whole street could fit in your driveway. Like, the actual whole street. The houses too.”

She didn’t know what to say to that, so she didn’t say anything. Drew didn’t talk much about home, but she’d picked up enough to know he hadn’t grown up with a guard at the gate or a driver waiting at baggage claim. Nobody had handed him anything. Everything he had, he’d worked for, and his parents had gone without plenty so he could have it. Nicole had never had to think twice about money a day in her life, and she knew it. She also knew that if things went the way everybody said they were going to go in April, he could have a house like this someday.

But that was April. Right now he was sitting in the back of her mother’s car in his good jacket with a duffel bag between his feet, staring up at her house and trying his best not to seem intimidated.

“You okay?” she asked.

He let out a breath and laughed a little. “Wright, I’m about to meet your mother, and the only thing she knows about me is her daughter beat some girl’s ass over me in a hotel room. Ask me again in an hour.”

The car pulled around the circle and stopped at the foot of the steps. The driver had the trunk open before they’d even gotten out, but Drew got both bags out himself anyway, slung his duffel over his shoulder, and rolled her suitcase to the foot of the steps. The driver stood there with nothing left to carry. The car hadn’t even pulled away before the front door opened.

Her mother stepped out onto the top step, and Nicole’s stomach went tight.

Roxanne Wright had dressed for this, because Roxanne Wright dressed for everything. Cream wool trousers, a black cashmere sweater, pearls, her hair in soft curls that hadn’t moved an inch in the wind.

“There’s my baby,” her mother said.

“Hi, Mama.” Nicole went up the steps and into her arms, and her mother held on to her a beat longer than usual, her hand moving once over Nicole’s back. She smelled like Chanel No. 5, the way she always had.

Then her mother let go, stepped back, and looked past her, down the steps.

Drew had stopped at the bottom with both bags. He set her suitcase down, pulled the duffel off his shoulder, and came up to meet them, and Nicole watched her mother take him in. All six feet four inches of him. The blond hair pushed back off his forehead. The jacket. His nice jeans and brand-new kicks. He looked so handsome.

“Mrs. Wright.” Drew held out his hand. “I’m Drew. Thank you for having me. You have a beautiful home.”

Nicole could’ve kissed him. She’d told him on the plane to say that, and he’d rolled his eyes, and here he was, saying it like he’d thought of it himself.

Her mother took his hand. She didn’t shake it so much as hold it a second, the way she did with people she was still deciding about. “Drew,” she said. “It’s nice to finally meet you. You’re taller than I expected.”

“Yes, ma’am. I get that a lot.”

“I’m sure you do. Well. Come inside before you both freeze. Nicole, I hope you’re hungry. Your grandmother has been in that kitchen since six o’clock this morning.”

Drew went back down for the bags and carried them in behind everybody. The foyer was warm, and it smelled like pine and cinnamon and something buttery coming from the back of the house. The tree reached nearly to the landing of the curved staircase, white lights and gold ribbon and the glass ornaments her mother had been collecting since before Nicole was born. Somebody had soulful Christmas music playing in the background. The floor shined so hard you could see the chandelier in it. And under the tree, there were presents. A lot of presents.

Nicole noticed the boxes first, because they didn’t match. Her mother wrapped everything in the same paper every year, gold and cream, with ribbon she had sent from a shop in Georgetown. These were wrapped in deep green with silver bows, stacked high on one side of the tree.

Her mother saw her looking. Her smile didn’t move, but the corners of her mouth pulled in, so small a thing that Nicole doubted Drew even noticed. Her mother knew exactly who’d sent those boxes, and judging by that mouth, she had a pretty good idea what they were for. Nicole told herself it was just bitterness. If her mother would wait for the paternity test like her dad had asked, she’d see she had nothing to be bitter about. Then her mother’s face was smooth again.

“Those came Wednesday,” her mother said. “A truck brought them.”

Nicole wanted to say something. That it was nice of her dad. That he’d wanted to come. That he’d called her twice this week and asked about his wife both times. But Roxanne was already turning away, so Nicole let it go.

That was when MJ came down the stairs. “Well, well, well.” Her brother was grinning before he even hit the bottom step.

MJ was six-six, almost as tall as their dad, in a Miami Hurricanes sweatshirt and sweatpants and house shoes, like he hadn’t gotten the memo that today was a dressing-up kind of day. Or more likely, he’d gotten it and ignored it. “Look who made it. Squirt, you look good.”

“That’s Tiffany’s word.”

“Tiffany ain’t here yet, so I’m borrowing it.” He hugged her hard enough to lift her off her feet, set her down, and turned to Drew. For one second, Nicole held her breath. Then MJ stuck out his hand and dapped Drew up the same way he would any of his boys. “Drew Kiernan. What’s up, man. Welcome to the house.”

“Thanks, bro.”

“And my bad for grilling you like that when you called at Thanksgiving. I was just messing with you.” MJ looked at Nicole and lifted his eyebrows, just a little. She knew that look. It said, See? I can behave. “Mama, you need me to take their bags up?”

“It’s all good, man. I got it,” Drew said.