“You want tuna or turkey?”
For one genuinely foolish second, my chest lifted. I thought she meant she was bringing lunch out.
Then she added: “For your father. He can’t decide.”
I laughed out loud up there on the roof. One sharp, involuntary sound that even surprised me.
At two I came down to refill my water bottle.
The kitchen was cool and dim and smelled of lemon cleaner and chicken salad. My parents were at the table together looking at a laptop and a stack of glossy printed pages fanned out beside the fruit bowl. My mother reached over to show my father something on one of the sheets, and that was when I saw the heading.
Paris. Florence. Nice. Barcelona.
Below the destinations: first-class flights, private airport transfers, a river cruise upgrade, a vineyard lunch, luxury suite, sea view.
Booked. Not dreamed about, not circled in pencil. Fully booked, with dates six weeks away.
