When Noah came home, I’d ask, “What did you two talk about?”
“Nothing.”
“You stood there for ten minutes.”
“Yeah.”
“What did he say?”
“He said it’s hot.”
“And?”
“I said yeah.”
That was apparently a complete conversation between them.
Still, Noah never missed a Saturday unless we were out of town.
He went through brutal summer heat.
Cold October mornings.
Light rain.
Exam weeks.
The Saturday before finals.
Even the morning after junior prom, when he came downstairs looking like he had slept about twenty minutes.
I saw him heading toward the garage and said, “You know you could skip one week.”
He yawned.
“Grass doesn’t know I went to prom.”
Then he crossed the street.
Over time, the routine became so normal that I stopped thinking much about it.
Noah grew taller.
His voice deepened.
He learned to drive.
Mr. Vance moved more slowly.
But every Saturday, Noah still crossed that street.
Then, two weeks ago, someone knocked on our front door.
When I opened it, Aaron Vance was standing there.
I recognized him from a few holiday visits.
He looked exhausted.
“I’m Aaron,” he said.
“I know.”
His eyes moved toward our garage.
“Is Noah home?”
Noah heard his name and came downstairs.
Aaron swallowed.
“My dad passed last night.”
Noah didn’t say anything at first.
His face barely changed.
Then he asked, “Was he alone?”
Aaron shook his head.
“No. Claire and I were there.”
