Chapter 13

The second week of January, and Conrad is strapped into his car on the foggy outskirts of town, heading south to San Francisco. He's picked this little spot in North Beach—someplace casual enough that he won't look like he's trying too hard, but nice enough that Laurel will feel it was worth the trip. His knuckles whiten on the steering wheel. "Remember," Amelia told him before he left, "just breathe. You're not delivering a TED talk—she's Laurel." She's bundled in a puffy jacket, holding a travel mug that steams in the cold. Conrad steps out, glances back at her. "What if she notices I haven't sorted my life into neat little piles yet?" Amelia shrugs, tipping her mug. "Then you tell her you're a work in progress." She texts him the link to a playlist called "Smooth Rides" and waves him off. Conrad closes the door, rolls down the window, and watches her silhouette shrink behind him as he pulls away. The Bay Bridge lights glimmer through the mist by the time he parks. He walks up to the front window, takes a steadying breath, then steps inside. The hostess leads him to a small table by the window. He settles, smooths his shirt, checks his watch. Laurel arrives exactly on time, coat draped over one arm, hair loose around her shoulders, and that same easy smile waiting for him. "Connie," she says, and he can't help the small smile that flickers across his face. She slides into the seat opposite him, shaking off the cold. He sticks to water, she chooses a glass of wine. For a moment, they sip in sync, eyes meeting across the table. "You look good," Laurel says softly, as if she's afraid he won't believe it. He feels the tension in his shoulders ease just a little. "So," she prompts, "tell me everything you've been glossing over in your texts." He launches into talk of classes—how organic chemistry is brutal, how he's practically living in the lab. She listens, nodding, but he can feel her gaze working past the surface, reading between his words like she always has. "Holidays were... nice," he adds, almost reluctantly. "Amelia made roast beef. We actually watched Hallmark films. Even made Mom's pie." Laurel's smile warms. "That sounds perfect. I'm happy you weren't alone." They talk about summer plans: internships, med school applications, whether he'll stay out west or find a reason to come back east. He surprises himself by admitting he's leaning toward staying, just to be closer to this new life he's piecing together. Laurel's eyes light with pride. "That's a big step," she says. "I'm proud of you, Connie." The food comes—pasta and bread—and the conversation drifts, laughter spilling over at old Cousins' stories. For a while, it almost feels easy. But then Laurel sets her wine glass down, fingers tracing the rim, her tone shifting. "Steven told me he hasn't heard from you in a while. He sounded... worried." Conrad presses his fork into the pasta, not lifting his eyes. "Yeah. I've been busy." "You've always been busy," Laurel says gently. "But you've never been so far." He swallows, feels the words jam in his throat. "It's just... easier this way." Her silence invites him to go on, but he can't. Not yet. Laurel tilts her head. "And Jere?" The name lands softly, but it still stings. She lets it linger for a moment before even softer "Belly?" His chest tightens. "She's your daughter, Laur. I just... I can't." "I know," Laurel says, her voice breaking at the edges. "I am her mother. But you're still my special guy." The words undo him. His grip on the fork loosens. "It just hurts," he admits, voice ragged. "I love her, you know. And that's always going to be there. Everything we had... everything she touched in me, down to the depths of my heart. It's there. It's always there." Laurel reaches across the table, resting her hand over his. Her eyes are wet but steady. He shakes his head, ashamed. "I'm sorry for pulling away. For not calling. For... all of it." "You have nothing to apologize for," Laurel says firmly. "Healing isn't linear, Connie. You don't owe anyone neat edges or explanations. You're allowed to step back if that's what you need." The rest of dinner feels quieter, gentler, as though something unspoken has finally been let into the light. When the plates are cleared and the check comes, neither of them is in a hurry to leave. Conrad walks Laurel out into the cool misty air, headlights smearing across the slick street. She hugs her coat closer, still smiling from something he said. "You're here just for tonight?" he asks, unlocking his car. "I'm here for another night," she says, tucking her hair behind her ear. "It'd be nice to see where you've been hiding these past four months." Conrad hesitates, thinking of the white walls, the mattress, the silence. But instead of deflecting, he hears himself say, "Then come by tomorrow. I'll show you the campus too. Might make all those conversations about exams and labs finally make sense." Laurel grins, her eyes soft. "Deal. I want the full tour. Apartment, campus, the whole Conrad-in-California experience."

The next morning dawns grey, the kind of sky that promises drizzle. Conrad straightens the apartment before Laurel arrives, stacking textbooks, shaking out the throw blanket from the couch. He hesitates at the counter where last night's plate still sits—covered in foil, a wedge of lemon cake Amelia had sent over. He moves it to the fridge, though the zesty smell still lingers.

Laurel knocks softly, and when he opens the door, she steps in with a brisk smile. Her gaze sweeps the small space—white walls, sagging bookshelf, a plant drooping in the corner—and he feels that old, familiar urge to apologize for not being enough. But she doesn't say anything.

Instead, she drifts to the counter, fingertips brushing over a neat stack of Tupperware, each labelled in looping handwriting that isn't his. Laurel raises an eyebrow but doesn't comment. "You've made this place... yours," she says instead, gentle, a little amused. Conrad clears his throat. "It's quiet. Close to campus."

When he gives her the tour, she notices more. The tea strainer balanced in the sink, not something he'd ever use. A faint scent of vanilla clinging to the sofa cushions. Laurel doesn't press, but she files it away—the sense that someone else passes through here, softening the edges of his solitude.

On campus, Conrad shows her the library, the lab building, the quad where students sprawl with laptops. Laurel slips her arm through his, smiling. "It's good to see you here. You seem... steadier."

He almost says It's because of distance, but instead just nods. "Yeah. I think I'm finding my footing."

Laurel gives him a searching look, the kind mothers use when they know more than they're told. "I'm glad, Connie. You deserve that."

Back at the apartment building, Conrad is acutely aware of every footfall on the linoleum corridor. Laurel walks a measured half-step behind him, her hands tucked in the pockets of her wool coat. She is talking animatedly about the indie bookstore she found on 24th—how the owner insists you buy at least one staff pick, how the windows are always steamed over from the espresso machine—and Conrad finds himself grateful for the easy patter, the rhythm of her familiar voice. It's both a balm and a reminder: he's not the only one with a new life to narrate. He fumbles with the keys, dropping them once, a nervous tic that makes Laurel laugh quietly. The sound bounces off the painted cinderblock walls and, somehow, makes the building less sterile. Before he can get the door open, there's a soft click from the apartment next to his. Amelia steps out, arms full of a baking tin wrapped in a dish towel, her hair pulled into a haphazard bun. She freezes on the threshold when she sees them—Laurel in her crisp black coat, Conrad with one hand still on the doorknob. There's a split-second of silence, and then Amelia's cheeks flush, her eyes darting to Conrad's before settling, awkwardly, on her own feet. She shuffles the baking tin up to chin level, using it like a shield. "Sorry, I just—I was going to drop this off, but I can come back later. No rush." Conrad, amused, lifts an eyebrow. "Dropping off more of your experiments?" He makes a show of sniffing the air. "Is it safe this time? Last one had a three-day half-life." Laurel, smiling, does a little double-take between them. "Wait, is this the neighbour who's been keeping you alive all semester?" She directs the question to Conrad, but her gaze is on Amelia, genuinely interested. Amelia's flush deepens, but she manages a small, sheepish smile. "It's nothing, really. Just a hobby." Laurel's hand is already on Conrad's shoulder, steering him aside as she addresses Amelia directly. "Are you kidding? You're probably the only reason he's still above ground. I hope you know his idea of 'nutrition' before this was dry cereal and instant coffee." Conrad protests with a huff, but it's half-hearted. He finally gets the door open, steps in, and looks back at the two women. "Come in, both of you," he says. "It's warmer inside. And Mills, I promise I'll use the strainer this time." Amelia hesitates, glancing at Laurel as if seeking permission. Conrad catches her eye and mouths "she doesn't bite" with a small smirk. Amelia narrows her eyes at him before whispering, "Excuse me for wanting to make a good impression on someone who actually matters to you." Her tone is light but there's genuine nervousness beneath it. Laurel only grins wider, pretending not to notice their exchange. "Join us. Please." Inside, the apartment is small and square, but tidy. There's a faint scent of lemon polish from the counter, and the drooping plant in the corner looks slightly less dead than yesterday. Conrad tosses his keys in the bowl by the entryway, shrugs off his jacket, and sets about making coffee. "Look at you, all nervous," Conrad murmurs as he passes Amelia, who's still lingering by the doorway. "It's almost endearing." "Shut up," she whispers back, the baking tin still clasped in both hands. "Should I just..." She gestures toward the counter. "Yeah, set it down. Laurel, you want tea?" Conrad is already at the kettle that Amelia had gifted him after watching him microwave water, scooping leaves with the confidence of someone who has performed this ritual countless times. "Always," Laurel says, sinking onto the edge of the couch. She studies Amelia with open curiosity, but her questions are gentle. "So, is baking your thing, or just something you do to procrastinate?" Amelia snorts softly, relaxing a millimetre. "Definitely a procrastination tool. But it keeps my hands busy, and Conrad's taste buds seem indestructible, so it works out." Laurel laughs, and Amelia's posture shifts again, shoulders lowering as she sets the tin down. "What's in the tin?" Laurel asks, reaching for it before Amelia can answer. Amelia glances at Conrad, mock-serious. "Should I warn her, or let her find out the hard way?" He grins over his shoulder. "She survived my mother's cooking in the 90s. She'll live." Laurel peels back the foil, and a warm, nutty aroma fills the room. "Banana walnut bread?" She tears off a corner and pops it into her mouth, eyes widening in exaggerated delight. "Oh wow. This is—actually, this is amazing." Amelia makes a tiny, embarrassed bow. "You're just being nice." Conrad, pouring tea, interjects, "Actually, she isn't. She can be brutal." Laurel nods sagely. "It's true. I once told him his haircut made him look like a Dr. Seuss villain." Amelia gives a genuine, surprised laugh. "I need photographic evidence." "Don't encourage her," Conrad warns, walking towards them. "She carries baby pictures in her phone. She's weaponized nostalgia." "Now I have to see," Amelia says, turning to Laurel. "You're not going to hold out on me, are you?" Laurel fishes her phone from her purse with the air of a magician producing the final trick. She scrolls for less than ten seconds before she finds a photo of Conrad, aged maybe thirteen, all limbs and sullen eyes, a mop of shaggy hair perched atop his head. She shows it to Amelia, who presses a hand to her mouth to stifle her laughter. "Laurel," Conrad groans, but he's grinning, and Amelia can tell he's not actually mad.

Laurel smiles, genuine and a little awed. "You have a beautiful accent," she says turning back to Amelia, and it's not the kind of line she'd say just to be polite.

Amelia grins. "It's half London, half American now. I'm told I sound like a BBC narrator who's had a stroke."

Laurel laughs, a full-bodied sound. "I'd buy that audiobook."

Conrad hovers, unsure if he should sit or let them get acquainted on their own terms. Amelia solves the dilemma by sliding a mug toward him, then another to Laurel.

"It's loose leaf. If you hate it, I can grab something from mine," she says.

Laurel sniffs the steam, then sips. "It's perfect," she says, and the look she gives Conrad is loaded with more meaning than the words.

He pretends not to notice, occupying himself with stirring honey into his tea. The three of them sit in a gentle standoff, no one quite sure who's supposed to make the next conversational move.

"So," Laurel says, breaking the silence, "what brings you to the wilds of Palo Alto?"

Amelia leans back against the couch, arms folded. "Wanted to study Computer Science, figured a change of scenery wouldn't hurt. I came for the weather, stayed for the misery." Laurel laughs again, eyes crinkling. "That tracks. My son Steven's doing Computer Engineering at Princeton. He says the same thing about the program." "Steven?" Amelia glances at Conrad, who suddenly finds his mug fascinating. ""Conrad mentioned him. Something about summers and...boats?" Laurel's smile tightens slightly. "Those summers at Cousins were..." She trails off, redirecting. "Anyway, he's thriving. Different coast, same complaints." They swap stories about campus bureaucracy, the conversation rolling more naturally than Conrad expects, though he notices how Laurel carefully steers around certain topics. He watches from the periphery, marvelling at how these two women have started orbiting each other, even with the unspoken gaps between them.

Laurel glances over, her look softening as she takes in the room, the mugs, the banana bread, the sunlight pooling on the laminate, and Conrad—hair still rumpled, but something brighter in his eyes.

Conrad clears his throat again, but this time it's less from nerves, more to mark the moment.

"Anyone want more tea?" he asks, already reaching for the kettle.

Laurel shakes her head, smiling. "No, but I'll take some more banana bread. This is better than anything I've had since the last time Susannah baked."

Amelia beams, pride barely contained. "Secret is the ground ginger and a bit of orange zest."

Laurel nods, blinking quickly. "He told you about her, then."

Amelia's look turns soft. "She sounded like someone worth knowing."

"She was," Laurel says. "But you'd have gotten along. As they talk, Amelia becomes increasingly aware of the way Conrad is watching her, like he's seeing something new and trying to fit it into an existing puzzle. She wonders what piece she's supposed to be, in this scene with his second mum and the lemon-scented kitchen and the plant that's fighting for its life. For a moment she feels out of place, but then Laurel says, "It's nice to meet the person Connie actually talks about. He's a closet softie, but you probably know that already." Amelia glances at Conrad, who looks away, the tips of his ears turning pink. "He's not that much of a softie," she teases. Laurel winks. "Not until you get past the Fisher shell. It's a whole thing." Amelia laughs, more at ease now, and accepts a second slice of banana bread when Laurel offers it. For the next twenty minutes they talk about everything and nothing—about the best way to cure a hangover (Amelia: greasy diner food, Laurel: soda water with a dash of bitters), about the music drifting up from the street below, about the time Conrad tried to build a treehouse and ended up with a broken arm and a family legend. Conrad mostly listens, chiming in when the story requires correction or clarification, but otherwise letting the conversation flow around him. He realizes, at some point, that this is the most comfortable he's felt in months, two of his worlds overlapping. Eventually, Laurel stands up, dusts the crumbs from her skirt, and stretches. "I should get going if I want to beat the traffic. But this was wonderful. Thank you," she says, looking at Amelia with real warmth. Amelia stands too, smoothing her shirt. "Thank you for coming. I hope the banana bread makes the journey less miserable." Laurel grins, tucking the rest of the loaf into her bag. "I'm rationing it. If I eat it all at once, I'll be too sad when it's gone." At the door, Laurel gives Conrad a quick, fierce hug. When she leans back, she keeps her voice low, just for him: "She's a good one, you know. Don't let her spook you." For a split second, she holds his shoulders, searching his face with something like relief. "You're doing okay," she says quietly, and it's not a question. His ears go red, but he nods. Laurel winks, turning to Amelia, hand extended. It would be formal, except she gives it a friendly squeeze. "I hope to see you again, Amelia. Next time I'll bring something to earn my keep." Amelia, caught off guard, nods and says, "It's a deal." After the door closes, Conrad and Amelia are left standing in the entryway, the silence edged with something new—anticipation, maybe, or the fragile hope that they haven't ruined anything. Conrad clears his throat, shoving his hands in his pockets. "Thanks for being here. She really liked you." Amelia shrugs, but she smiles. "She's easy to like. And you're not so bad yourself, Fisher." He shakes his head, laughing softly. "Let's not get carried away." She nudges him with her shoulder, moving back inside. "Hey, give yourself credit. You survived a parental visit and no one cried. That's huge." Amelia grabs her mug, lifting it to her lips, then looks at him over the rim, a teasing glint in her eyes. "You know who you should invite next time? Steven. He's Laurel's son, right? You guys were best friends?" Conrad freezes, the mention like a thread pulled too tight. "He's not in California," he says carefully, voice low. She shrugs, unfazed. "So? FaceTime exists." She flicks her finger at his phone on the counter, as if it's the most obvious thing in the world. "I've never seen you two interact. I want to know if you're as compatible in person as Laurel claimed, or if you're just a legend in your own mind." He glances at her, caught somewhere between amusement and exasperation. "You're enjoying this, aren't you?" "Maybe a little," she admits, leaning against the counter, playful but somehow earnest. "But really... I think it'd be good for you. You always seem to hold yourself back from anything back home. Like you're waiting for permission to be... everything you already are."

Conrad shifts, rubbing the back of his neck, staring at the floor. "I don't know if I'm ready for that."

Amelia sets her mug down, walking closer until she's just a step away. "Then start small. A call. A video chat. That's it. No expectations. Just... honesty."

"He'll be pissed I waited so long," Conrad mutters.

"He'll get over it," Amelia says, nudging him with her shoulder.

He looks up at her, and the warmth in her eyes pushes against the heaviness he's been carrying. Slowly, he reaches for his phone, the weight of hesitation in his fingers—but also something lighter, a quiet trust that she knows him well enough to push when he needs it most.

"Okay," he murmurs, almost to himself. "Okay. FaceTime."

Amelia smiles softly, the playful edge still there but now tempered with genuine encouragement. "See? Not so scary"

He hesitates, thumb tracing the edge of his phone

He flips through his contacts, finds Steven's number. His finger hovers over the button for a long time before he taps it.

The FaceTime rings. Once, twice. On the third try, Steven picks up. The screen flickers, and Steven's familiar face appears, a raised eyebrow already in place. "Finally decided to call, huh?" "Yeah," Conrad says, voice a little tight. "Thought it was time." "About time," Steven says with a grin. "So, what's life like out there? Stanford's treating you well?" Conrad exhales, leaning back against the counter. "It's... good. Classes are brutal, labs even more so. Organic chemistry is eating me alive some days. But, you know... learning." Steven laughs, eyes lighting up. "Sounds like classic Conrad. And outside the lab? Any glimpses of fun?" "Some," Conrad admits, voice low. "I've got my apartment nearby, close to campus... just keeping my head down mostly." They slip easily into conversation then, trading stories about professors, campus life, and the small, ridiculous frustrations of college. Conrad listens as Steven talks about Princeton—the snow-covered campus, late-night study sessions, the chaotic dorm politics. For a moment, the months apart melt away, and it's just the two of them, joking, ribbing each other, comparing notes on classes and professors. Amelia sits quietly off to the side, sipping her tea, a calm presence that Conrad keeps sneaking glances toward. It's grounding, but also makes him hyper-aware of how exposed he feels—his usual composure softened by her quiet observation. "So," Steven says, voice playful, breaking a brief pause. "How's the social scene at Stanford? Met any cute Cali girls or anything?" Conrad freezes, caught mid-laugh. His eyes dart upward instinctively, catching Amelia's calm, teasing gaze. Heat rises to his ears. "Uh... no—well, I mean..." His voice stammers, words tangling as he struggles to navigate his flush. "Not really. Just... making friends, mostly." Steven grins knowingly, smirking. "Friends, huh? Sure you're not looking at anyone in particular?" Conrad swallows hard, heart hammering. "I—I should... uh..." He hastily fumbles, ending the sentence with a laugh that doesn't quite land. His thumb hovers over the end call button, then presses it. The screen goes black almost before Steven can tease him further. He sets the phone down, exhaling sharply, cheeks still warm. Amelia leans back slightly, a small, unreadable smile on her lips. Conrad rubs the back of his neck, avoiding her eyes for a moment, then finally looks up, realizing he's both relieved and flustered in a way he hasn't been in months. "You okay?" she asks softly. "Yeah," he says, voice tight but calmer, forcing a smile. "Yeah, just... uh, catching up with old friends." Amelia doesn't push; she just nods, settling into her chair, and the quiet comfort of her presence helps him breathe again.