“I’m in Connecticut.”
“I can come there.”
That surprised me.
Vanessa didn’t “come to Connecticut.” She visited Manhattan rooftops. Napa vineyards. Miami art fairs.
“You’re sure?” I asked.
Her exhale was tight. “Yes.”
We agreed on Sunday afternoon at our parents’ house.
The house looked smaller than I remembered, though maybe that was because Daniel’s Manhattan townhouse had redefined my sense of scale. The white shutters needed repainting. The porch swing creaked.
But it felt real.