Page 121 of Chasing Home

“Why?” It’s a demand disguised as a question.

He shouldn’t be here. Not in this town I’ve grown to love so much. Hasn’t he taken enough?

“I don’t know. I only got his text a few minutes ago. All he said was that he wanted to talk to the both of us. He mentioned you by name.”

“I’m surprised he remembered it at all.”

She pauses before asking, “What happened in Toronto?”

“He didn’t believe I was who I claimed I was.”

“Then why is he here?”

“I don’t know.”

But as a blazing fury slithers through my veins at the thought of him tearing through this place, I plan on finding out. He has no right to come back to the place everyone’s told me he hasn’t returned to in a decade. Not now.

It’s mine.

Yet as I step inside the Rustic Ridge diner three hours later with my shaking hands hidden in the front pocket of my hoodie, I wonder if it wasn’t truly his first.

The business is busier than I’ve ever seen it, with gawking customers who ignore the plates in front of them and stare at the table where he waits. Sitting alone, he scowls at the white porcelain mug in front of him before hearing my footsteps and glancing up at me.

“Where’s Wanda?” I ask, grabbing the back of the chair opposite him. It’s the only extra at the table.

“She won’t be here for a bit.”

“I just spoke with her earlier. I thought we?—”

He waves a dismissive hand through the air. “I tweaked the time around a bit. It was you I hoped to speak with, but I didn’t have your number.”

“You don’t have people who would have found that information for you?”

He ignores my question. “Sit, people are staring.”

“They were already looking.”

He exhales heavily, not hiding his frustration at my reluctance. “Just sit.”

I pull the chair out and sit before he asks again. There are too many people watching to tell him off for demanding me like one of his employees.

“Why are you here?” I ask.

“I expected you to be happier to see me. Especially after how we left things.”

“You mean when you all but told me to get lost?”

He jerks his chin. “I could have handled that better. I just wasn’t expecting to see you.”

“Because you didn’t know I was alive. And whose fault is that?” I ask, folding my arms over my chest, my muscles so damn tight they burn.

There was a time for me to be kind and considerate, and he wasted it in Toronto.

“If all Pi—your mother, did was send letters, I never saw them. My record label took over all fan mail once I signed my first deal with them.”

“Fan mail,” I repeat, forcing myself to stay seated instead of storming off.

“That’s what it would have appeared to be, Aurora. I wasn’t making a dig.”