Chapter 3

2

The quilt my mother brought was something she made from spring through summer.

She’d sell jam at the market during the day and sew under the kitchen light at night. Deep blue base, white floral patterns, one hundred and eight pieces total, patched together one by one. She embroidered two words on the corner with red thread― “Claire.”

She said, “New York winters are cold. No matter how high the heat is, nothing is as warm as a quilt from home.”

My mother’s English isn't great. She stuttered through a “Nice to meet you” when greeting Holden’s parents.

Holden’s mother offered a thin smile.

It wasn't a kind smile. It was the “I knew it would be like this” kind of smile. She picked up the jam jar my mother brought, flipping it over to check the label―handwritten and crooked.

“Homemade?” She enunciated slowly, as if afraid my mother wouldn't understand.

My mother nodded. “Homemade. Clean.”

Mrs. Montgomery put the jar back on the table and didn't touch it again.

When Sutton returned from the gallery, the dinner had already started.

She wore a champagne-colored silk shawl, her feet clad in red-bottomed heels. She hugged Holden’s father first, then pressed her cheek against his mother’s. Finally, she walked over to Holden.

Holden stood up to help her take off her shawl.

His hands lingered on the back of her neck for half a second. It wasn't the kind of lingering a brother has for a sister. His fingertips touched the ends of her hair, and then―they didn't pull away immediately. His thumb slid down the back of her neck, very slowly. As if he were feeling the texture of her skin.

“It’s cold outside,” he said. “You’re not wearing enough.”

The tone wasn't a reminder. It was affection.

He folded her shawl and draped it over the chair. The movement was too practiced, as if he’d done it a thousand times. Then he reached out to tuck a stray lock of hair behind her ear―another movement he’d performed a thousand times.

Sutton smiled. She tilted her head back, her eyes curving into two crescents. It wasn't the smile of a “thanks, brother.” It was the smile of “I know you’d do this.”

Then she stood on her tiptoes and pressed her cheek against his.

It wasn't a kiss. It was a press. Her lips brushed his cheekbone. So fast it was like it never happened.

Holden didn't pull away.

Sutton sat down opposite me. She glanced at me and smiled.

It wasn't a friendly greeting.

It was a “Do you see now?” kind of smile.

My mother was pouring water for my father. She didn't see any of this. But she sensed the atmosphere had shifted―the hand holding the pitcher paused, she looked up at me once, then lowered her head and continued pouring.

She knew she shouldn't ask.

She has lived her whole life with the mindset of “if you shouldn't ask, don't.”