"That's not a no."
He stared.
She stared back.
Then she smiled.
"You got grumpier."
"I have a child."
The words left before Dean considered them.
Clare went completely still.
He saw the change instantly.
Not simple surprise.
Something else.
Something that looked almost like hurt.
Dean frowned.
"What?"
She looked toward the truck again.
This time more carefully.
"A child?"
"Seven."
Clare inhaled slowly.
"A boy?"
"Yes."
Her eyes closed for half a second.
Dean knew Clare too well, even after nine years.
Something had happened behind her face.
"What is it?"
"Nothing."
"That's twice you've said nothing when it's clearly something."
She looked back at him.
"You said you weren't married."
"I'm not."
"But you have a son."
"Correct."
"Where's his mother?"
Dean looked away.
There were questions that became easier with repetition.
This was not one of them.
"She died."
Clare's expression broke.
"Oh."
"Three years ago."
"Dean."
He crouched beside the wheel.
"Don't."
"I was going to say I'm sorry."
"I know."
"Am I not allowed?"
"You're allowed."
"Then I'm sorry."
Dean loosened the first wheel bolt.
Clare remained standing.
He could feel her looking at him.
Finally she crouched beside him.
Too close.
He noticed the perfume before he noticed the hand she placed lightly on his forearm.
That perfume.
Different brand, maybe.
Same kind of floral warmth she had worn in college.
His body remembered before his mind wanted to.
Dean looked at her fingers against the grease on his sleeve.
"You're going to ruin that outfit."
"I own other clothes."
"I'm relieved."
"Still sarcastic."
"Still overdressed."
"Still avoiding me."
Dean looked up.
Her face was close.
Much too close for two people who had not seen each other since she walked out of his apartment in Brooklyn nine years earlier.
Her eyes searched his.
"I've thought about this moment," she said.
Dean's throat tightened.
"What moment?"
"Seeing you again."
"Why?"
Clare almost laughed.
"You really want to pretend you never wondered?"
Dean went back to the wheel.
"Wondering doesn't change anything."
"No. Apparently marriage, children, death and nine years do."
He looked at her sharply.
She softened immediately.
"That came out wrong."
"Yes."
"I'm sorry."
Dean sat back on the wet asphalt.
The wheel itself looked fine.
He reached underneath with a light.
Clare shifted closer.
"What are you doing?"
"Checking the lower steering connection."
"Can I help?"
"Yes."
She brightened.
"How?"
"Don't touch anything."
Her eyes narrowed.
Dean smiled for the first time.
Clare hit his shoulder lightly.
"There he is."
"Who?"
"The man I remember."
"That man had better knees."
She laughed.
The sound hit him harder than her hand.
Dean looked beneath the car.
Loose electrical connector near an active steering module.
Probably water intrusion or vibration.
Nothing catastrophic.
He reached farther.
Clare leaned down.
Her hair fell over one shoulder.
"Dean."
"Hmm?"
"Do you hate me?"
His hand stopped.
He stared at the underside of the car.
"No."
"Did you?"
"Sometimes."
She nodded as if that was fair.
"Were there days you wanted me to call?"