Stella’s nose wrinkles. “I know.”

“Stella could compete if she wanted to,” Hank says to me, and despite what Stella seems to think about Hank not being the fatherly type, the man is clearly proud of her. “Or be an instructor. Just a matter of getting a license.”

Stella blushes. “Then flying wouldn’t be just for me anymore. It would be tied to expectations and work.”

“If you love it, it isn’t work,” Hank states.

He’s right, and he’s wrong. I love making music, playing my guitar, and singing. I couldn’t wait to dive headlong into being a star. But it has become work. Expectations and the stress of fulfilling endless commitments take a toll. Suddenly the thing I love isn’t pure anymore. It has a life of its own, and it can drain me if I’m not careful. So I get why Stella doesn’t want to turn her passion into her work.

My hand cups the back of Stella’s neck in a silent show of support. But she doesn’t need it. Stella shakes her head softly and laughs a little. “That would be a great argument, Hank, if I hadn’t heard you complain about students on a daily basis for years.”

Hank laughs, a wheezy crackling sound, like he doesn’t do it very much. “True that, Stella girl.”

The wind kicks up, rushing along the ground and whipping at the tops of the low-lying trees surrounding the airport. It’s getting darker, the sky leaden with gray clouds.

Hank glances up, frowning. “You going back to the city?”

“That was the plan,” Stella says.

“We’re not going to make it.” Even as I speak, it begins to rain a light sprinkle. It’s going to be much worse any second now. I glance down at Stella. “We’re on a bike. Trust me, you don’t want to ride in a rainstorm.”

She studies the sky. “We’ll have to hunker down at a restaurant for a while. Do you mind?”

“I don’t have any place to be but with you.”

She pinks at that, but Hank clears his throat, sounding fairly disgusted. “Why don’t you come over for dinner? Corinne would love to see you.”

“Oh … I …” Stella’s eyes dart to me, as if she’s worried about putting me out.

Honestly, I’m probably in for a night of getting the side eye from Hank, since he hasn’t stopped glaring at me since he showed up. But he clearly cares about Stella, and he’s obviously important to her.

“Sounds good to me,” I say, just as the skies open up for real.

Stella

* * *

“How far away is Hank’s house?” John asks over the pinging rain as we get on his bike.

Hank has jogged off toward his pickup, and we’re preparing to follow.

“About five miles. I don’t mind getting a little wet.” A boom of thunder has me jumping.

John grunts and hands me my helmet. “Riding in a thunderstorm isn’t something I want to risk with you. Rain like this isn’t going to feel good. Tuck your head against my back.”

John starts the bike, and we head out onto the highway behind Hank’s truck. Rain pelts us, and I rethink my carefree stance about getting wet. Rain hitting you at sixty miles an hour is not fun. I feel for John who is taking the brunt of it, and snuggle closer to his back.

It gets colder and wetter, and by the time John turns the bike onto Hank’s street, I’m shivering. The sight of Hank’s green-and-white ’50s split-level is a relief. Hank opens his garage and motions for John to park his bike next to the truck.

As soon as John turns off his bike, Corinne opens the kitchen door and waves us in. “Come in, come in. You must be freezing.” She beams at me as I walk up. “Hello, baby girl. It’s been too long since I’ve seen you.”

“Hey, Corinne.” I kiss her smooth cheek and draw in the familiar scent of lilac soap. “I’ve missed you too.”

No matter the time or place, Corinne is always put together. Today her lips are glossy coral, her steel-gray hair cropped close to her head. Gold bangles jangle on her arm as pats my shoulder and then smiles over at John. “I see you brought a friend.”

John steps into the kitchen hall. “John Blackwood. Thank you for having me, ma’am.”

“Oh, pish on ma’am. Makes me feel old. Do I look old?” she teases.

John’s cheeks flush. “Not at all, ma’am—er—”

“Call me Corinne,” she says, putting John out of his misery. She leads us into a big, cheery kitchen that they renovated last year with dark wood cabinets and green granite counters. And though I’d never say so to Corinne, a part of me misses the older kitchen with its ’80s laminate cabinets, butcher-block counters, and gray tile floors. Only because I’d spent so much time here as a teen.

The new kitchen is gorgeous, and completely Corinne’s style, but it doesn’t feel like home the way the other one did. Even so, it smells the same, warm and inviting, the scent of pot roast making my mouth water.

John and I take off our jackets and Corinne tsks. “Both your pants are soaked. Let’s see what we can do about that.”

Despite our protests, Corinne marches us off, John being sent to the guest bath and me to their daughter Lucille’s room. Soon, I’m wearing a pair of hot-pink yoga pants she left behind when she went off to college. I meet John in the hall and grin. He’s wearing Hank’s old Air Force Academy sweatpants, and they are a wee bit tight.

“Sexy,” I say, glancing at his bony ankles exposed by the too-short pants.

“Wait till you see my ass,” he whispers, walking a little down the hall like he’s a runway model.

The sweats are indeed hugging his ass like a lecher. But he works it. I wolf whistle, and he glances over his shoulder to wink before coming back to me. Despite my fear that he’d hate visiting, he appears relaxed, happy even. But his eyes search mine, and the humor in his fades. “You told me you didn’t have any family.”

The comment hits me unaware, and I fight to keep my face from betraying me. “I don’t.”

My act is paper thin, and we both clearly know it. John leans in, affecting a stage whisper. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, Button.” He glances down the hall where the kitchen lights glow in welcome and Corinne and Hank’s muted conversation flows. “But I think you do.”

It’s dim in the hall, but I feel utterly exposed. “They have their own child.”

A weak argument at best, but how can I explain to him that, even though I love Corinne and Hank, I cannot emotionally beggar myself by asking to be part of their family. It will feel like pity or charity, because they were there to see me abandoned. I love them; but I can’t need them.

The silence grows stilted as I shift my feet and grasp for something to say. John watches me for a moment longer then pulls me into a hug. I stand stiffly in his arms, but he doesn’t seem to mind. He places a light kiss on my head. “Let yourself be loved, Stella Button. You deserve it.”

He doesn’t wait for me to answer but takes my hand and leads me back to the kitchen.

Dinner is served around the kitchen table, and I dig in, surprisingly hungry. Or maybe it’s just that it’s Corinne’s food.

“You fly today, Stella?” Corinne asks.

“I took John up for a ride,” I say between mouthfuls of pot roast and mashed potatoes. “Showed him a few tricks.”