My beach house.
“We already moved some stuff out there,” he went on, fast, the way he talks when he’s selling something. “Blythe gave up her apartment, and my lease was up anyway, so it just made sense. We’ll get it all set up when we’re back. You don’t have to do anything.”
I looked out my kitchen window at the crepe myrtle Nile planted the year Cullen was born.
“Mom?”
I smiled into the phone. I don’t know why. Maybe because if I hadn’t smiled, I would have screamed.
