“Six o’clock,” I said. “I’ll text Michael the address. Dress down. My neighbors won’t be checking anyone’s labels.”
Walking out of the Brookshire Country Club that afternoon, I felt lighter than I had in years — genuinely, physically lighter, like I’d set down something I’d been carrying without fully realizing its weight. The valet brought my old Honda around, and I tipped him twenty dollars.
He looked at the dented bumper, then down at the bill in his hand, clearly confused by the math of it.
“Life lesson, son,” I told him, sliding into the driver’s seat. “Never judge a book by its cover. And always tip well. You never know who you’re actually dealing with.”
I drove home through the familiar tangle of Boston traffic, already mentally listing everything I needed to do before six. Clean the apartment properly. Buy groceries. Maybe pick up a decent bottle of wine, something better than my usual. And somewhere in there, I’d need to sit down with Michael and finally explain, in full, why I’d kept a secret this large from him for this long.
Mostly, though, I found myself thinking about Sarah. About how much she would have adored Jessica. About how proud she’d have been of the man Michael had become. And about how thoroughly she would have teased me for my little dramatic reveal at the country club.
Always with the flair, Tommy, I could practically hear her saying, that particular half-exasperated, half-fond tone she used whenever I did something a bit too theatrical for her taste. You never could do anything quietly.
That evening, at exactly six o’clock, my doorbell rang.
I opened it to find the entire Bradford family crowded into my narrow hallway. Richard had traded his Brioni suit for khakis and a plain polo shirt. Patricia wore jeans — probably designer, knowing her, but jeans nonetheless. Christopher had on a faded Boston College sweatshirt that looked like it had actually seen a washing machine more than once.
“Come in,” I said, stepping back. “Fair warning — it’s small.”
They filed into my six-hundred-square-foot apartment, and I watched them take it all in — the IKEA furniture, the modest television, the tiny kitchenette that barely fit a stove and a refrigerator side by side.
“It’s cozy,” Patricia said, and for the first time all day, she actually sounded like she meant it.
