Page 142 of Roadrunner

He crossed the yard at something just short of a run, which was as close to running as an eleven-year-old with dignity to protect ever allowed himself in front of witnesses. Robert MacAfee, a man who had built four hospitals and sat on more boards than I could name, crouched right there in Della’s yard in a suit that cost more than the wedding and hugged his grandson like a man afraid he may had lost the right to.

“You came,” Arthur said, muffled against his shoulder.

“I couldn’t miss this,” Robert said, looking around. “Or, miss seeing you.”

He straightened. He caught sight of me, with my face pinched between the partially open window and the frame. He inclined his head, just slightly, the way you’d acknowledge a debt you intended to keep paying for the rest of your life.

I pressed my hand against my mouth.

Martina appeared at my shoulder. “Come away from the window.”

“Just a minute.”

“Alex.”

“One minute.”

I watched Della walk my parents to their seats. My mother touched the flowers at the end of the row as she passed. My father held her chair.

I came away from the window.

Arthur was in the hallway.

He was in dark pants and a white shirt and a jacket that fit him correctly, which had required two trips to the store and Martina’s final authority on the matter. His hair was combed neatly. He looked older than eleven. He always had.

He looked at me.

“Ready?” he asked.

“Are you?”

He straightened his jacket. “I’ve been ready,” he said.

He offered me his arm.

Eleven years old. Offering his mother his arm.

I took it.

We went out the back door.

The white lights were doing what I’d known they would do. Everything else fell away and it was just light and the smell of the flowers and the desert evening coming on around the edges.

Everyone stood.

I didn’t look at the chairs. I looked at the end of the aisle.

Riley was there.

He was in dark jeans and a dark jacket and his vest, which was exactly right for the occasion. His hair was freshly cut, and his face was cleanly shaven. His hands were at his sides. He was looking at me the way he’d been looking at me since the back room of the clubhouse. Directly. Without apology. Like a man who’d made his decision and settled into it.

His eyes dropped to Arthur.

Something moved through his face.

He pressed his lips together once.

Then he looked back at me.