Lena gasped and let go.
Isaiah immediately stepped back.
Shame hit him.
"I didn't—"
"I know."
Her voice trembled.
Isaiah looked away.
He hated that his hands were shaking.
He hated that the stranger was watching.
He hated the house.
The curtains.
The car.
Everything.
"You were supposed to be dead," Lena whispered.
Isaiah looked at her again.
"I noticed."
Tears rolled down her face.
"They told me you were dead."
"They were wrong."
"I waited."
Isaiah swallowed.
"Apparently not forever."
Lena flinched.
Behind her, the stranger looked toward the ground.
Isaiah pointed at him.
"Is he living here?"
Lena did not answer quickly enough.
Isaiah laughed under his breath.
"Of course."
"Isaiah, you don't understand."
"Then explain it."
She looked at the man.
Then back at Isaiah.
"His name is Thomas."
"I don't care."
"Please."
"Is he sleeping in my bed?"
Lena closed her eyes.
That was the answer.
Isaiah looked away.
Four years.
Four years of imagining her.
Four years of believing there was one person in the world waiting for him.
He had been wrong.
He walked toward the rental car.
Lena followed.
"Isaiah, stop."
"I need to get out of here."
"Where are you going?"
He turned.
"I don't know."
"This is your home."
Isaiah stared at the house.
"No."
His eyes moved toward Thomas.
"Looks like it's his."
Thomas stepped forward.
"No."
Isaiah looked at him.
Thomas spoke carefully.
"It isn't."
"Then why are your boots beside my door?"
Thomas said nothing.
Isaiah nodded.
"That's what I thought."
Then a small voice came from inside.
"Dad?"
All three adults froze.
Isaiah slowly turned toward the doorway.
A little girl stood there.
Eight years old.
Maybe nine.
Dark brown skin.