The next day, I spent too much time deciding what to wear.
I worked at looking casual. I changed clothes so often I lost count of how many times because I didn’t want him to know the little kid was still inside the grown man.
I wondered what he’d wear. Would the smoky smell cling to him? Would he notice that he smelled bad and do something about it, or had he been defeated by what he’d endured, his mother’s death taking part of him with her?
At ten of six, my doorbell rang, and there he was. I’d anticipated going up the hill to fetch him, maybe finding he’d forgotten the date, but no, here he stood on my doorstep.
He’d cut his beard close, obviously showered, washed and combed his hair. He resembled Prince Harry. He wore a royal blue long-sleeved shirt and khakis, still smelling of smo
